Sherlock (A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction)
by ReadyforRevolution
Summary: After three years sepparation, Whitney Morgan is ready to see John Watson once again, but she is not prepared for his flat mate. What will happen when these three are thrown together and make 'deadly trio' a new thing?
1. Episode 1: A Study in Pink

**Disclaimer: I do not claim rights or ownership to the Sherlock series, all praise goes to the creators of the show. I am only writing this fanfiction for creative and purposes (basically I have no life except for one at a keyboard!) I do claim ownership, however, to my OC Whitney Morgan and any other character I introduce that is my own.**

**Anyhow, I hope you enjoy the story.** :]

**And a lovely thanks to the wonder ThouArtPenguin for assisting me in the editing and mending of this story 3**

They really aren't kidding when they say Britain can have some shit weather.

Of course it had only been three hours since my flight landed in London when the thought arose, but then again the weather was shit for nearly the entire plane ride. From Halifax, Nova Scotia to London, England, not a sliver of blue in the sky unless you looked down and caught a glimpse of the teal sea, and mistook that for the sky.

London, England wasn't actually a bad place though. Of course I knew the weather wasn't always cloudy and such, city was nice, the people were kind enough, every time I looked to my right I saw some sort of bakery or another. Not all in the genre of cookies and muffins but I think the gist of it is pretty clear, it was the obvious choice when I was given my vacation (and I say 'vacation' solely due to the fact that it is a friendlier term than 'forced military leave'.)

The weather had nothing to do with that decision either, sorry.

Although, it wasn't just the pleasant corner shops and the quaint little flats that got my head set on travelling to England, more specifically, London. It was a friend of mine. We hadn't spoken in three years but hardly any harm could be done by a light little visit, right? Besides, I'd taken the time to find his home address. That effort couldn't just go to waste, especially for someone I'd known for seven years.

In fact 221B Baker Street, London, England was embedded in my brain by the time I got off of the train and called a taxi. But of course I couldn't go to see him straight away, and before flying out I'd taken the precautions to rent a flat nearby which called for me to drop off my luggage there and do the usual thing people do when they buy a new place to live. Temporarily.

It was with my bags in my hands that I stepped off of the taxi, having paid the driver and wishing him a good day, that I waltzed up to the door of my new flat and rifled around in my pockets for the keys. From my side I withdrew the silver key engraved with 225A and unlocked the door. For the first step into the apartment air fresheners introduced themselves as sweet scents of summer days and orange plants. It brought a pleasant mood over the entrance-way, through to the living room, then the kitchen, and up the stairs to the bedroom and bathroom. It was a small little place for about a hundred fifty pounds a month, I could make due.

I spent that morning depositing my items in the closet and folding things neatly in drawers and pruning the flat to the best of my abilities until it was nearly dark and the streetlights had flickered on. With a coat over my shoulders, a scarf under my chin and a hat atop my head, I left my flat and began walking down the lonely sidewalk. Shadows of the few people on the street and the rare stray animals scampered across the walls of buildings. Some would cross paths, others wouldn't. I heard a bark or a growl in the distance and felt apprehension crawling up my spine, but I was at the front door of 221B Baker Street before it could be taken seriously.

With a steady fist I rattled my knuckles along the wooden door. From inside a door opened and shut, probably someone leaving their room, footsteps increased in volume as they grew nearer to the door until the lock clicked and the door opened. A woman of short blond hair that flew out at odd angles and eyes the imitation of diluted coffee, stood before me. Steep laugh lines, she appeared to be in her fifties but hardly a wrinkle on her face. She would be a kind woman, you could tell from the lightness of her eyes and the way her face became pleasant once she greeted me at the door.

"Oh, hello dear. Can I help you?" She had a sweet voice, very friendly.

"Hello, does John Watson live here? I'm a friend of his... I hope my assumptions of him being here aren't wrong."

"Oh! Of course not, John's just gone out for awhile." I bobbed my head in understanding, burying my tremulous hands in my pockets. _Well maybe some other-_ "But why don't you come in for some tea and we'll wait for him?"

I fancied the thought for a few moments before taking her kind offer, replying with, "Yes, that would be lovely Mrs. …" Of course I knew her name, I had the papers of everything on John and his living style. I was military, for Christ's sake, it was my job.

She understood my hesitation and answered, "Mrs. Hudson, dear." As she ushered me through the door and cut off the cold breeze by closing the door behind her, from around my neck I unraveled the scarf and slid off my coat, hanging them both over my forearm as I followed Mrs. Hudson down the hall to the stairs. Up we went until we were in front of a door that led into a flat room. My eyes glazed the area, observing.

"This isn't your flat." I could tell from the few things lying around, none of them seemed of her... type. I'd at least expect a few crochet needles or the like.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled lightly as she withdrew from my side and into the kitchen. "It's John's and Sherlock's. I'm sure they won't mind if you're in here. You are John's friend after all." I watched her disappear into the kitchen and listened to the noise of her preparing the kettle. I sat in the nearest armchair, folding my coat and scarf over my lap. Was this woman always so trusting of strangers? For all she could know I was sent here to kill somebody.

"Who's Sherlock?" The question wasn't needed, I already knew, but it helped to play ignorant in this situation.

"Oh, John's flat mate. He's a bit strange, but you get used to him." My eyes flickered to a skull just on a shelf across from me as well as a few other oddities displayed around- I swear I could make out a jar of some human organs on a bookshelf, but I didn't dare question it. "Speaking of…" She walked out from behind the counter to the shelf that held the skull, and grabbed it. "I'm getting sick of this thing Sherlock keeps around." Once the skull was tucked away, probably in a hiding place that wasn't checked regularly, she returned back to the tea making. I chuckled lightly at this.

"So you're their landlady then?" Yet another bit of information shared in the report.

"I am." She said.

"Ah." I relaxed in the chair and glanced into the kitchen. "So when did they move in here?"

"Today, actually. I'm quite curious as to how you found out he was living here on such short notice..." Perhaps it was just my left ear failing me but I swore I sensed suspicion. Ah, maybe she wasn't as ignorant as she seemed. Still, she did let me inside.

Due to this, and in order to assure her, my next words were truthful. "I was in the military with John, we have sources keeping an eye on him to make sure he's safe. I'm taking time off; they told me he was in London so I thought I'd visit him. That and I'd like a taste of British culture in my life."

"That's really sweet." Mrs. Hudson's words held the presence of a light smile, and, eventually I was shown that smile when she entered the living room next, this time carrying a tray of teacups and a pot. She set them on the table across from me and settled herself in the comforter to my side. "How long were you in the military with him?"

"Seven years. Then he left and I served another three after that, now I'm here."

She seemed surprised by the way her eyes increased in size and her brow shot upward. "My goodness, you don't look like you've spent ten years in the military!"

A light chuckle shook my shoulders. "I enrolled when I was eighteen. John and I were stationed in Afghanistan together, that's how we met."

"It must be a hard life," she commented and took her teacup in her hands. I'd already taken mine and had lifted it to my lips to take a long sip.

"It is, but I couldn't imagine not living the way I do. It makes up for the things I lack."

My eyes fixated on the tea swirling about the cup's insides. I trailed along the patterns of the cup with my thumbs, becoming lost in the swivels and flowers. "Like what?"

I lifted my head to peer at her. "Pardon?"

"What could you be lacking?" Her eyes had softened, the diluted coffee becoming a peppery chocolate, intense and curious. I subconsciously cleared my throat after finding something seemingly distracting my voice.

"Well..." I truly pondered it for a while to come up with some earnest and heartfelt answer. It's a shame and a relief that I couldn't answer, due to the door to 221B creaking open before I could give my though out reply. Both Mrs. Hudson and I's heads turned to see whom the visitor coming up the stairs was, and I half expected it to be John. It wasn't, instead a figure in grey shot through the door, a vibrantly pink suitcase at his side and his eyes flicking around madly. The intensity of his irises surprised me as they were directed on Mrs. Hudson, then myself. I took in his face, his posture, his emotions, making mental notes. The most alarming and… Pleasant thing about him seemed to be his eyes. They were nice. Yet I couldn't say the same about the pink suitcase to his side. What was with that anyways?

He tore his gaze from me and looked to Mrs. Hudson again.

"Who is she and why is she here? I could probably figure it out myself but I'd rather we just get to the point." Taken aback by his bluntness, I leaned back and raised an eyebrow.

"Sherlock!" She seemed appalled by his manner of speaking. To be honest I felt it quite refreshing, different than the usual discretion of those I served with and knew. Instead of reacting rashly I simply set down my tea, stood to step around the chair and held out my hand.

"Whitney Morgan, I'm a friend of John's. You must be Sherlock, his flat mate, right?" He didn't shake my hand, so eventually I just let it drop and wrapped it around my coat. For a few moments his eyes trailed over me, making his observations quite obvious. I was used to such looks, being military and all, the one place where it wasn't considered rude to judge a book by its cover.

"You're not his type." Sherlock spoke tersely.

Playfully (and lightly curious), I said, "Care to elaborate?"

He did not hesitate. "The amount of grey you wear is overwhelming and plainly boring, my thought is you're the eggs and toast for breakfast sort. Mediocre, and the crumbs are still on your lap. You appear too young to be a high school friend of John's and judging by what you're currently wearing you are living from a wealthy family, that coat in particular is quite expensive. You're hair is up with a few strands dangling in front of your face which makes it seem like you're wishing for someone in particular to push that strand behind your ear, typical movie moment. You tried to make it look like you don't care when really you care too much and often over think things from the wrinkles on you're forehead. You probably met John one day at a café, you too were enveloped in a conversation and he told you about his blog while you sip some coffee that has far too many syllables and laughed atrociously. You two exchanged numbers and he never called back so you thought it would be appropriate to visit him and get the date but it isn't appropriate because you're not his type. You're ordinary and John likes action, though he doesn't like to admit it."

He turned sharply on the heels of his feet and sauntered over to a cabinet, dropping the suitcase next to it. From the cupboard he pulled a package, pulled out three strips that looked like Band-Aids and slapped them on his arm. Nicotine patches, I observed. _Smoking problem?_ Obviously, but I noticed how he kept his back turned to Mr. Hudson as he did this. Perhaps she wasn't supposed to know of a smoking problem; perhaps I wasn't even supposed to be watching him.

He collapsed on the couch across from us, pulling out a phone and typed something quickly before tossing his phone to the table. No reaction seemed proper for his actions, but I settled for sitting back down and sipping my tea.

Mrs. Hudson looked completely appalled with what Sherlock said.

"Don't worry," I said to her. "Since you know the truth it just makes this much funnier."

"What truth?" Sherlock muttered from the couch, seemingly bored as his cheeks puffed with a large breath of air.

"A lot of what you said was true, save for a few tidbits." Mrs. Hudson glanced to Sherlock, then to me. In return I sent a sly wink and set my eyes on Sherlock as he thought. I saw his questioning in the narrowing of his brow, the direction he turned his eyes when he thought, the emotions behind them.

"You and John met at a library then. You were talking too loud, the librarian hushed you, you laughed, he laughed, and you continued talking."

"Wrong."

"Your…hair. Something about your hair."

"I couldn't care less about-"

"You're a woman, of course you care about your hair." My eyebrows shot up as I lifted my tea. He can't be serious... "It's up, but unkempt and you're a brunette. You're some sort of businesswoman, maybe a secretary. You had it pruned like a bush this morning but it eventually fell out and you're too lazy to fix it."

"Closer, but I don't care about my-"

"Keep telling yourself that, it doesn't make you special."

"Right." My grip tightened on the teacup, taking the last sip of the liquid inside.

"Oh don't look so hurt, I'm simply trying to prepare you for future events."

"Why? I'm a stranger." He opened his mouth to speak then shut it again.

"Good point," and he returned his concentrated gaze the ceiling. I refilled the small porcelain teacup, catching Mrs. Hudson's disapproving gaze toward Sherlock. It was in vain, of course, he was too busy staring at the ceiling and had even begun to take deep, steady breaths. In a moment's time I felt all but invisible. Then again, I also heard footsteps in the hall. They grew closer, closer, something clanked against the floor with each second step. A walking cane, I assumed. Eventually the noise stopped at the doorway and I took a glance over my shoulder.

"John!" I cried out at once, the familiar figure a sight for sore eyes. The eyes, the hair, the posture, the clothes were all like I remembered. Of course the cane as well, but I often looked over it.

"Whitney? What in the world are you doing here?" He limped onward, an awestruck smile slowly tugging at his features. He was surprised, but he was pleasantly surprised.

"I'm in Britain, thought I'd pay an old friend a visit." I rose from my chair, leaving the tea on the tray. He stopped in front of me, smiling, glancing to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson simultaneously. "So," I began. "Do we hug like old friends or just stand around like buffoons?"

"Will an arm work?" He managed a joke and with his free arm he wrapped my right side in a haphazard hug. With my own arm I did the same, and we released a few moments after. "You've met Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock then?"

"I have... but one seems a bit peculiar." My eyes landed on Sherlock, John got the message. As if to purposely interrupt our conversation as well, a heavy breath escaped the peculiar individual.

John noticed, turning his attention to Sherlock. "Right... What are you doing?"

"I'll just be going then..." Came the light hearted sound of Mrs. Hudson.

"Bye Mrs. Hudson," I answered back as she departed from the flat. Now, back to Sherlock. Neither of the two paid her any mind.

He lifted up his arm. "Nicotine patch." Called it. "Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London, bad news for brain work."

"But good news for breathing."

"Breathing," Sherlock scoffed. "Breathing is boring-"

"Necessary." I interrupted quickly, just as John began to lumber past me with his cane. I'd remembered him using it briefly before he left but never had paid much attention to it.

"Are you using... three patches?"

"It's a three patch problem, and so is your 'friend'. She's a problem, not worth three patches but... tenacious."

Snorting, I said, "That's the nicest thing he's said to me since I got here. You should've heard his deduction of how I know you. Apparently he doesn't think I'm your type. I'm not enough action for you, and we met at a cafe or library while you told me about your blog. By the way, when did _you_ start a _blog_?"

"Three years ago." John's eyes turned accusingly to Sherlock. "And who are you to determine who my type is? I don't have a type!"

"Oh hush John, of course you do." _My_ 'three patch problem' countered. "I would know."

"No you would not! I've known you a little over twenty four hours, you do not-"

"You could've asked him to dinner first before inviting him to live with you, Sherlock." I remarked, chuckling lightly to myself as I leaned over to clean up the left over tea from Mrs. Hudson and myself. As I turned to deposit the dishes in the kitchen, I felt eyes burning into the back of my head. John glaring, most likely from my little comment.

"It would've been a waste of time."

"Like your deductions of me."

"Perhaps you'd like to shed some light then?"

"Maybe some other time."

"So be it."

"_WILL YOU TWO SHUT UP_?" Both Sherlock and I barley moved at the caterwaul that came from the evidently unhappy John. I made a zipping motion over my lip then leaned nonchalantly on the counter as John regained his composure. "I'm sorry Whitney, but perhaps we can get a coffee some other time? Chat a bit, right now I'm a bit busy." I shrugged nonchalantly, and went to leave, but as soon as John's attention was off of me I stopped and observed. It might've been a bit rude, but Sherlock had peaked my interest. "Now," John began a bit more calmly to Sherlock. "You asked me to come, I assume it's important."

Sherlock's eyes fell shut only to pop open as if in remembrance. "Oh yes, I need to borrow your phone."

"My phone?"

"I don't want to use mine, there's always a chance that the number will be recognized. Its on the website.

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."

"I didn't get the chance to ask." Sherlock's head lolled to the side, his eyes locked accusingly on me. I pushed off the counter with a shrug and planted myself back in the armchair across from Sherlock.

"I was on the other side of London!" Came John's reply.

"You made impressive timing then." I remarked. Neither seemed phased by the fact that I still lingered.

"There was no hurry," Sherlock assured. Dumbstruck, John stood for a moment, finally reaching into his pocket and withdrawing his phone. He held it out to Sherlock who simply held a hand up. John dropped it in his hand, obviously irked by the small gesture.

"So this is about the case?"

"What case?" I asked.

Sherlock answered. "A case..." As if it were obvious.

"Oh for Christ's sake, John?"

"A murder case. That's what Sherlock does. He... solves cases. He's a consulting detective- don't ask."

"No, no, the suitcase. Not the murder case." Sherlock said.

"Case-ception."

"That wasn't funny, Whitney." Sherlock. Again. "Anyway, the murderer took the case with him. His first big mistake."

"Alright," -John. "Okay, he took her case. So?"

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it."

"Risk what exactly?" I asked as if I were going to receive an answer. I didn't really get one.

Sherlock simply continued his orders to John. "On my desk there's a number, I want you to send a text." He took the phone that had been handed to him only moments before, and held it back out to John. _Oh, the nerve of this one… _

"You brought me here… to send a text." John mirrored my surprise, though while he most likely found it frustrating I was quite amused by the entire ordeal.

"Text, yes. The number on my desk." Obviously un-amused by Sherlock's obliviousness, John limped over and retrieved the cell phone. Perhaps Sherlock did notice though, for a moment later he asked, "What's wrong?"

"I met a friend of yours while I was out…" Perhaps I expected a different answer.

"A friend?"

"An enemy."

"Oh. Which one?" I couldn't keep from snorting aloud. Sherlock glanced over, kept his eyes on me for a moment, and then he turned back to the ceiling.

"Your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people have arch-enemies?"

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No-"

"Pity, we could've split the fee." Again, I choked out a laugh. I seemed to be the only one finding this amusing, funny even. "Think it through next time."

"Who is he?" John asked.

"The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now. On my desk, the number." With that, John turned and waddled to the desk where he began scanning the surface area.

I turned to Sherlock. "Can I be of assistance? This all sounds very exciting."

"You can make sure you don't get in the way, I doubt you'll be of any real assistance."

"Right."

From the desk, John spoke to Sherlock. "Jennifer Wilson?" He read aloud from a piece of paper. "Wait. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes," an exaggerated Sherlock replied. "That's not important. Just enter the number. Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

Have you done it?"

_"Hang on!"_

"These words exactly: 'what happened at Lauriston Gardens, I must have blacked out. Twenty two Northumberland Street. Meet me there'." He rose from his laying position and reached for something near the cupboard. The bright hot pink suitcase, which he had brought in earlier, was placed on the stool between us both. He sat in the chair beside me; unzipping the case and revealing it's contents. My eyes glazed the top items briefly before turning to John to see his reaction.

"That's the Pink Lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case." He said.

"Yes, obviously." -Sherlock's terse reply. From this John stared at it in deep thought, perhaps he was thinking the same thing I was. Earlier Sherlock did say that the murderer took the case. I didn't see Sherlock as the murderer type, but then again I'd only known him for a hardly half an hour. "Oh, and perhaps I should mention I'm not the murderer." He finally said. Well, that's a relief.

"I didn't say you were…"

"Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case is a perfectly logical assumption."

"You must get that assumption a lot, then?" I questioned.

"Quite."

"How did you get it?" -John.

"By looking. The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if he was in the car. Note that nobody could be seen without suspicion with this case, especially not a man, which is statistically more likely. It obvious that he felt compelled to get rid of it the moment he realized he still had it. It wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough fro a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find it."

"You realized all that because the case would be pink?" John asked.

"Well the case is pink, obviously."

"Well I wouldn't have gotten that."

"Because you're an idiot, no don't be effected by that, practically everyone is. Now look, do you see what's missing?"

"From the case? How could I?"

I thought for a moment, glanced to Sherlock, biting my lip. "Her phone...?" I said. "And John just texted it, didn't he?" It was a shot in the dark. Something that you would think would happened in movies, and I was quite surprised by Sherlock's answer.

"Right. She had a string of lovers, she would've been careful. She wouldn't have left it at home or anywhere unprotected so the murderer must have it."

"You made me text the murderer…" Came John, a bit taken aback by the revelation. I would've laugh at his facial expression but now I was leaning forward, enveloped in this story, but as soon as I had been sucked in, I was kicked back out. A ringing from John's phone caused our three heads to turn. The same thoughts began to churn through our head, and then Sherlock smirked.

"He's panicking. He killed the girl; he gets a text from this supposedly dead woman… I love it." I said, mirroring his expression. He looked a bit impressed really, but he didn't seem the type to hand out praise graciously.

"How did you-" John spoke to me, deciding he'd rather not hear my reasoning he turned to Sherlock. "Have you talked to the police?"

"Four people are dead," Sherlock shot up from his chair and grabbed his coat. "There's no time to talk to the police."

"So why are you talking to me?" John asked.

The other man frowned. "Mrs. Hudson took my skull." Well it didn't take him long to notice. "Don't worry, you do a fine job filling in."

He had already begun tying his scarf when John spoke next. "What about Donavan?"

"What about her?"

"She said you get off on this. You enjoy it."

"Yes… then again I said danger and here you are." With that he spun on his toes and marched out the door. I exchanged a glance with John, smirking widely.

"You have to admit it's interesting." He groaned outwardly and stood. In a fluid motion I swung my coat over my shoulders, tucked in my scarf and placed my hat on my head to follow suit of Sherlock. Beside me John kept pace, eventually catching up to Sherlock as he exited the flat and took a step onto the street. The cool breeze welcomed us and the night sky had grown darker since I'd arrived in the flat. "So where are we going?" I chipped.

"Who said you could come?" Sherlock questioned, glancing at John.

I was currently trailing behind the pack. "Well you never said I couldn't so I took it as an invitation."

He paused for a moment, mulling this over in his head, then, "Northumberland Streets, it's about a five minute walk from here."

"You think he's dumb enough to go there?" John asked.

"No, I think he's genius enough. I love the smart ones, always so desperate to get caught."

"What for?"

"Recognition, John. Appreciation. A long last of spotlight. It's the fealty of genius. It needs an audience."

"Yeah…"

"This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city." Sherlock turned, glancing down the streets. "Now that we know his victims were abducted that changes everything. All of them were taken from crowded places, busy roads. Think, who hunts in a crowd?"

"Who?" John asked.

"I haven't the faintest. Hungry?"

After Sherlock had made an unexpected right we had landed ourselves the window seat of a small diner. The waiter (who Sherlock expressed he knew from a case awhile back) strode up to us when we entered.

"So, is there anything I can get you?" The man asked. I snuck a glance to the two beside me then looked back to him.

"A peppermint tea would be nice, thank you." He made a quick note on a notepad then turned to John and Sherlock.

"Might as well eat," he advised to John. "It may be awhile before we spot anything. I don't want anything."

"Right… Just something small. Surprise me," he told the waiter who turned on his heels and to the kitchen. I drummed my fingers along the brim of the leather seat.

"So what are we spotting?"

"Something, anything suspicious." Sherlock kept his eye on the scene outside, surveying the roads and sidewalks in search of something in particular. At least that's how it looked.

"Alright." The waiter came into view not a few moments later, setting a cup of steaming tea right in front of me. "Well while we're waiting do you care to do another deduction of me? I'm curious as to what you can think up now." Now he reluctantly tore his eyes from the scene outside and they squinted as they observed me. At the same time I took him in, acknowledging the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the bright blue-green of his eyes, the curly hair that fell over his forehead. I turned my gaze downward, not a single hair or speck of dust on his suit. Not a crinkle or a wrinkle in his shirt or jacket unless it was due to his sitting position, even then it seemed neat and clean. He sat straight and tall, unwavering in his stance.

"I… You-" He rested his chin in his hands, really observing this time.

John, on the other hand seemed at a loss. "How is he able to get my sister's drinking problem from just my phone and he can't get anything from you?"

"You're trained to hide things well," Sherlock finally concluded and I rewarded him with a light smile. He continued. "That's why it's more difficult than others to figure you out. You're purposely trying not to be yourself just so I'm left in the dark."

"At least you could figure that out." I met his pose, resting my own chin my hand and leaning forward, forever a smile on my face. I quite enjoyed this little guessing game of ours. "But now it's my turn. From what I can tell you've been at this a long time, you're privileged, obviously. You see things others don't, think about things people often leave from their head. By the time you were eleven you could tell a crack head from heroine addict just by the way they walked. You didn't have many friends in school, you were too busy studying the sciences and to be honest not a lot of people fancied hanging around you anyways. This being said you had a loving mother and father who would jump in front of a train for you, but they could never imagine the pain of having so much going on in their mind like you did. That being said I suspect you have a sibling… a brother I'd say. Excuse me if I'm wrong. Older than you and probably acting as your superior, that's why you stand so straight and tall. You don't like the feeling of being less important than somebody, especially since sibling rivalries are quite fierce…"

John had that look on his face again, something of utter awe and shock. Perhaps for a moment he was about to praise my observations (or something of the sort), but instead he settled for something a bit less meaningful.

"I- my God. You two are a match made in heaven."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "You're different."

"Thank you."

"I didn't say if that was a good thing."

"I know it isn't." I hid myself behind my tea, sipping back the hot liquid. Sherlock and I still had locked eyes, and then something flickered to the left of my vision. A cab stopped at the sidewalk. No one entered, no one left. "I don't suppose that could be important."

They both picked up my reference and turned their gaze to the cab. The man in the back turned his head, eyes catching on the diner. Now, that was suspicious. Sherlock's eyes too, caught this and he proceeded to scramble out of his seat and to exit the diner. Setting my tea on the table, I followed with John not too far behind. Sherlock lead the chase toward the cab, which had begun peeling out of it's spot and heading down the road. As we set our feet in the spot the cab once was in, it had already made it's way down the road.

"I got the license plate!" John called.

Sherlock answered, "Good for you," before placing his fingers on his temples and furrowing his brow in deep concentration. I could see the gears turning in his head, finding routes, a pattern, something that could be of use for us. "This way!" He called then began at a sprint down an ally. John and I followed quickly after, sprinting at high speed after Sherlock, even though we didn't know where he was taking us. My best guess was he had it in mind that he planned to catch the cab. Into a building, out of a building, up a flight of stairs to the rooftops, jumping over hurdles and even jumping onto the top of another building. Sherlock made it across safely, I made it across easily having been well accustomed to such actions. John, on the other hand, stalled for a brief moment.

"Come on John!" I called over to him from the roof opposite. "Just like old times!" I caught his bitter chuckle before he made the leap and we began descending a staircase to the street again. Quickly we cut into an ally way, the taxi crossed in front of us. We were too late, but we continued down another ally, which brought us to an open street where we saw the vehicle make it's way toward us. Sherlock was the one to leap in front of the moving vehicle out of the three of us, makes sense since he seemed the least sane, but I could relate. The taxi's brakes screeched and Sherlock maneuvered around the car to open the passenger door.

"No…" He muttered to himself upon finding the person inside. Tan skin, bleached teeth. "Californian."

"Is there anything I can help you with?" He asked, "Are you the police?"

"Yes," and Sherlock flashed a badge (where he got it, I didn't know). "No there's nothing you can help me with… uh… Welcome to London." He shut the door to the cab and backed away.

"Where in the world did you get that…" John made a grab for the badge, reading it aloud. "Detective Lestrade. Scotland Yard Police."

"I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can have that one, I have a collection of them back home."

"You've got to be kidding," I snatched the badge from John, inspecting the name. Sure enough it definitely did not have Sherlock's name on it. "This is great, really great." I went to hand it back to John but he shook his head, having no interest. With a shrug I pocketed the trinket.

"So have you two caught your breath yet?" Sherlock asked. He hardly had to wait a second before he had our answers and we were racing back down the street to flat 221B.

"That was utterly ridiculous," I breathed out as soon as we were in the safety of the flat. John, chuckling breathlessly, was leaning against the wall to regain himself.

"That was the craziest thing I've ever done."

"And you stormed Afghanistan." Sherlock joked back with him and was greeted by both of our laughter. Of course he was speaking only to John about Afghanistan, but he and I had been in the same division during the mission that took us there. If anyone were to know what 'storming Afghanistan' was like, it'd be John and I.

"So basically it was just a cab that happened to slow down..."

"Yeah." Sherlock replied.

"Then what were we doing?"

"I was bored... and I wanted to prove a point." He turned his head toward the door, calling out, "John will take the bed upstairs Mrs. Hudson!"

"Says who?" Came his reply.

"The man at the door," and just like that, he smirked and there was a knock at the door. Both John and I were taken aback, but I watched as he walked to the door. Then I saw it. He wasn't limping anymore; he didn't even have his bloody cane. But, as Sherlock had most likely planned it, the man at the door did. When John opened it wide I saw the waiter from the diner with the cane in hand.

"Sherlock texted me," he said. "Said you forgot this." The man held it out and a quite awestruck John took it in his hands, thanked the man, and closed the door. He turned to Sherlock who was still smiling smugly.

"Sherlock!" Came an unexpected call from upstairs, followed by footsteps thundering down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson, with a look of distress faced us. "Sherlock what have you done? They're making a mess!"

Sherlock didn't waste a second, not even for further explanation, in a flash he was sprinting up the stairs in long strides. John and I followed suit, Mrs. Hudson trailing behind. When we burst into the flat I realized Mrs. Hudson was right. The place was a right mess with papers, oddities and stuff just strewn haphazardly around the floor. People I'd never seen before mulled about in search of a thing unknown to me. Though, what did catch my eye was the off-grey haired man simply relaxing in an armchair as he watched people pick through the flat's belongings.

"What is this?" Sherlock asked, to which his 'friend' in the armchair replied,

"A drugs bust."

"Him?" Came John's blatant response. "Have you even met him?"

"John-"

"I'm pretty sure you could search this entire flat and not find a-"

"John!"

"What?" John turned, catching Sherlock's eyes. For a moment they shared a silent moment until John next spoke. "No..."

"What?"

_"You!"_

"Oh shut up!" Sherlock turned back to the armchair. "You shouldn't be breaking into my flat just for a pretend drugs bust."

"It stops being pretend if we find anything." He answered.

"Oh please," -Sherlock. "I don't even smoke." He pulled back the sleeve from his arm, displaying his nicotine patches as proof. From the chair, the man stood and pulled back his own sleeve in which a patch was stamped down firmly.

"Neither do I."

"I'm sorry," I finally broke through having had enough time in the dark. "Who are you?"

"Detective Lestrade, Scotland Yard. I don't believe we've met." Lestrade extended his hand, to which I took and shook in good nature.

"We wouldn't have since I only just arrived in London this morning." He gave a look of confusion. "I'm a friend of his flat mate here to visit."

He released my hand and I placed my own in my pocket. It struck the cold metal of the badge I'd received earlier, and I had to bite my lip to keep from grinning inappropriately. So, somehow this guy got annoying enough for Sherlock to pick pocket him? I'd like to stay around to see that, I'm pretty sure I'd get a good laugh or two.

As our exchange was happening though, Sherlock had peered into the kitchen to inspect those who were going through his things.

"Oh," he groaned and turned to Lestrade accusingly. "What is Anderson doing here?"

"He volunteered," the Detective supplied. I turned to see a man in a blue plastic suit poke out from behind the wall upon hearing what I presumed to be his name. "In fact, they all volunteered. Not necessarily on the drug squad but very keen, nonetheless."

"And, not to mention, we've found the case." Anderson called over. "A case that was said to be in the hands of the murderer, and look where we found it!"

"Because he just found it and brought it back. I'm sure he would've told you at some point or another." I said, though I was sure Sherlock was the independent type. That and he showed a particular distaste in this lot so they'd be the last he'd tell.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" Anderson asked. I inhaled, catching a whiff of strong scented deodorant. A woman of dark hair had peered around the corner, the scent intensified as she walked past me to look at something on a table. My mind reeled with the possibilities and my instincts became a bit playful. My thoughts climbed to drastic assumptions, I was officially distracted.

"Not your type, but she is." I jerked my head at the woman who spun around at the remark.

"Excuse me?" Anderson asked.

"You're deodorant is starting to sting my eyes, you both wear it. And there's an outline of a ring on you finger under the glove... but she doesn't have one. Are you really cheating on your wife or is it just for funsies?"

"A wonderful deduction, if I do say so myself." Sherlock mused with a cocky grin. Anderson and the woman spun, glaring hate directly into Sherlock and myself. Lestrade had both of his eyebrows raised in surprise, and the tension in the room had become nearly palpable. _Oopsies, did I do that?_

Lestrade looked to Anderson and the woman. "We'll be talking about this later..." Heads dipped in shame; they nodded and cast each other awkward glances. It took a few moments for the tension eased, but even then it wasn't entire gone. It was only broken by the words of the accused woman.

"So, another one?" She asked in a hushed voice, to no one in particular either.

I frowned. "Another what?"

"Freak."

"Oh come on, we're not in middle school anymore."

"Hmph."

"We found Rachel," Lestrade spoke to Sherlock, averting my attention from the girl. "Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

"Her daughter... why would she write her daughter's name?" Sherlock mused to himself.

"Never mind that," came Anderson. "We found the case, and in the hands of our favorite psychopath!"

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high functioning sociopath, do your research." Sherlock spun to Lestrade. "You need to bring Rachel in, we need to question her."

"She's dead."

"Excellent!" I arched a brow. "How, when, where and why? Is there a connection? There has to be."

"I doubt it since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel is Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter."

"It doesn't make sense... why would she do that?"

"Oh, I don't know." Anderson said again. I took the time to notice how nasally his voice sounded and grimaced. "Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yeah, sociopath, I'm seeing it now."

"No, she just didn't think of her daughter. She scratched her name in the floor with her fingernails. That takes effort. She was leaving a message, a clue."

"You said the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he, I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow." John helpfully implied, though I didn't think it would be exactly right. How in the world would he use a dead child against a soon-to-be dead woman?

"That was ages ago, why would she still be upset?" The room went silent at Sherlock's ill choice of words, no one quite understanding how he could have such a lack of… understanding for such an emotional topic. "Not good?" He asked John, having sense the increased tension.

"Bit not good, yeah."

"You know, he's right." I said, eyebrows arched as eyes fell on me. "Well, she'd be upset still but that's the sort of thing that would influence an unhappy marriage. She couldn't look at her husband the same way after that so she turns to the affairs. It's her long-term way of coping, but then again Sherlock said she scratched her name in the floor with her fingernails. It's a clue."

"Right, you, I'm really starting to like you." He pointed a finger toward me, I shrugged in response. He began pacing through the room, his thinking nearly making itself palpable in the air around us. "Jennifer Wilson, string of lovers, she was clever. Very clever. She's trying to tell us something!"

"Isn't the doorbell working?" Mrs. Hudson's voice suddenly sounded. "Your taxi's here Sherlock."

"I didn't order a taxi. Go away." He waved her off with an arm.

"Oh dear, they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson." John told her. Now Sherlock was getting very antsy and his steps grew louder with the frustration building inside of him. His hands rose to his temples as if to block out the sounds around him, it wasn't going well.

"They're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers-"

Then Sherlock exploded, and let me tell you, it was quite the sight. "_Shut up! Everybody shut up!_ _Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe!_ I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

"What? My face is?"

"Everybody quiet and still." Came Lestrade. "Anderson, turn your back."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Anderson!" The man did as he was told which caused a light snicker from myself to form. I shushed it immediately.

"What about your taxi?" Came Mrs. Hudson's frail voice once again.

_"Mrs. Hudson!"_ Sherlock yelled. The woman, frightened by his outburst, turned and hustled her way down the stairs. I sat back in one of the armchairs, watching Sherlock intently. I did hope he'd apologize to her later. But at that moment it was the last thing on his mind, something had just dawned on him. "Oh. Ah... She was clever, clever, yes. She's cleverer than you lot, and she's dead!"

"Offence taken." I muttered.

"Do you see? Do you get it? She didn't lose her phone. She never lost it! She planted it on him! When she got out of the car she purposely left it in there because she knew she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Lestrade asked.

"Wh-… What do you mean how? Don't you see? Rachel!" The room was still utterly silent, trying to work out what Sherlock was saying. My mind was buzzing like a nest of honeybees; gears were grinding against each other as what he was saying slowly began to make sense.

"It's a fucking password." I chuckled lightly. "It has to be, that's how she remembered! Honestly, you'd never forget the name of your stillborn daughter so there goes your worries of ever forgetting your password. Her phone has a tracking app, most likely, that's what it's for. That's how she's leading us to him."

"Exactly! John, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address." Sherlock set himself down next to his laptop, opening a tab whilst John picked up the little tag on the luggage.

" .uk."

"She was busy, constantly. That would mean she did her business on her phone, she didn't have time for a laptop. So it's a smart phone, it's email enabled so there's a website for her account. Her username is her email address and like Whitney said her password is..."

"Rachel." Came John.

"So we can read her e-mail, so what?" Anderson. I rolled my eyes, coming to stand behind Sherlock to watch him work. Anderson really is a bit of a dunce.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the entire street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. Like Whitney said, we can track her mobile phone through GPS. She is leading us directly to the killer."

"Unless he got rid of it." Said Lestrade.

"We know he didn't," John told the detective. "We texted it earlier and he called back."

"Come on..." Sherlock urged the computer to speed up its locating process. At the same time footsteps began ascending the stairs to stop at the flat's door.

"Sherlock, dear, the taxi driver." It was Mrs. Hudson again.

From his spot at the chair, Sherlock shot up and walked over. "Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" _Ouch._ I turned to glance to the two but my gaze lingered. Up the stairs, behind Mrs. Hudson, a shadowy figure approached. Bad news, I thought instantaneously just at the sight of him, but any further observations were left to the wind as John spoke next.

"Sherlock? It says it's here in 221 Baker Street." Sherlock had sped to the computer, confusion masking him as he tried to work it out in his head.

"How could it be here?"

"Well maybe it was in the case when you brought it back. Maybe you dropped it." Lestrade offered.

"What? And I didn't notice it? Me?"

"Guys," Lestrade turned back to his people. "We're also looking for a mobile phone.."

Sherlock didn't seem to notice as Lestrade spoke. His eyes had narrowed in thought, situated on the floor and standing perfectly still. I observed, watching carefully as well as trying to figure it out.

From his pocket, Sherlock's phone buzzed. The man at the stairs began to walk away.

"Sherlock," John asked as Sherlock stared at his phone screen, reading the new message. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." I didn't believe that for a damn second.

"So how can the phone be here?"

"Don't know." _Yes you do._

"I'll try it again."

"Good idea." Sherlock began his steps out of the flat, to which a curious John asked,

"Where are you going?"

"Just out for some air. Won't be long." And he was gone, coat and scarf already on as he proceeded to make his way down the steps. For the longest time I sat in thought of what in the world was going on. I even dared to ask myself how I got involved in this. Hadn't I just gotten here this morning, now I was tagging along on a murder case? Bloody bonkers it was. That, and who would've thought anyone like Sherlock Holmes existed? With his peculiar behaviors and way of working things out. What had John gotten himself into? What had I gotten myself into? Wasn't this military leave supposed to be so I could gather myself before heading back out into the field? Now I'm in this environment and-

"Sherlock just got in a cab. He just left. "John said, peering out the flat's window.

"What?" I shot up, peering out of the window to see as the cab drove off down the street. That was when the pieces violently shot together. The cab driver, Sherlock's text, the murders. "Holy shit." I said aloud, startling John.

"Alright guys, time to pack up. We're done here." As Lestrade called out this order, having given up since Sherlock left, I was already heading out the door at full sprint, only pausing to call back to John.

"I'll be right back!" I said, then exited the flat building. Down the street I ran again, through the road, across sidewalks. My flat would've been a regular ten-minute walk from 221 Baker Street, but with my legs flying at high speed it only took my half of that. I burst into my flat and stormed into my room, pulling out my suitcase that still had one last personal object of mine inside.

A PSS Silent Pistol, my only souvenir from the military other than the memories. I put it on the inside jacket pocket of my coat and burst out of my flat again. I made my way back to Baker Streetm and as I neared the door I saw John hailing a cab and jumping in. Without wasting a moment I hopped in the other side.

"Lestrade and his people left, but you know where the phone is. You figured it out."

"So did you." John said, pulling his mobile from his pocket and dialing what I assumed to be the police. His laptop, beeping away with the search screen still up, sat on his lap with the location of the mobile on the mini map.

"It took a minute." I answered.

"Christ," John muttered, then eventually he began speaking into the phone when the police picked up. He spoke the address, the information, everything until there was nothing else to tell and he hung up. By that time we were in front of the place, the location of the phone (and most definitely Sherlock). There were two buildings, both identical to each other.

"You take the right, I'll take the left." I said and we both burst into a sprint to the buildings. I burst into the door, pulling out the PSS as soon as I knew John wouldn't see it. No real reason for my secrecy other than I didn't want to seem like a paranoid nut case, still carrying a gun. I weaved through the hallways, searching rooms with the weapon held at the ready.

Then, after a few moments, I heard the echo of voices in one of the large rooms. I peered around a corner to a door-less room where the voices were originating. Keeping well hidden in the darkness of the hallway, I blanched as my eyes fell on the cab driver and Sherlock sitting across from each other at a long table; fit to sit nearly three dozen people. I held up the gun from my hiding place, figuring that bursting out into the scene would only cause a mess; if I had to I'd shoot from my cover then high tail it out of here.

As I inspected closer, I noticed two bottles standing upright on the table. Each had a single pill in it; each would most likely mean one of their deaths. The cabbie took his bottle and opened it, catching the pill that fell out in his palm.

"Oh, interesting." Said the cab driver. "So what do you think? Shall we?" He lifted the pill to his lips. My aim focused steadily on the man, prepared to shoot. "Do you really think you can beat me? Clever enough to bet your life? I bet you get bored... a man like you." He was edging Sherlock on, and he even opened his own bottle and took out the pill, holding it to the light. "Forever the addict. You'll do anything, anything at all to stop being bored..."

They both lifted the pill to their lips. That was when my finger pressed firmly against the trigger, but the sound that erupted was not from my own gun, but instead another. A bullet, creating a sizable hole in the glass, had breached the window behind Sherlock and the cabbie collapsed with a gun wound oozing blood from his heart. My own gun had ripped a bullet through his chest, right beside the other wound. The double impact had caused the man to throw his arms wildly in the air, tossing the pill in my direction and at such a distance so it dropped to the floor and stopped just a few feet from from me.

A thought passed through my head, and I ducked out of cover for a moment to retrieve the pill (unseen by Sherlock as he inspected the bullet hole in the window) and place it in my pocket before racing down the hall with steps as quiet as I could manage. The entire time I couldn't keep my thoughts off the pill in my pocket or the gun that had fired. The gun that hadn't been mine.

When I exited the building, John was waiting for me, his hands in his pockets.

"You shot him." I said to which he nodded. It was in the way he was standing, that and I could see the paleness of his hidden hands. They weren't shaking, John wasn't like that, but he always paled at the thought of taking another life.

"Yeah... I did."

"I did too." Discreetly I peeled back my coat to display the handle of the gun in my coat, causing John to breathe out a relieved laugh. "Guilty as charged."

"You know, I've wondered about you for a long time." It was a sudden sentence that I wasn't prepared for, but I answered.

"Yeah?" I asked as we both turned to walk away from the building. The sounds of police sirens had begun to sound in the distance.

"Yeah. I wondered what you were up to after I left. After you came to me earlier this evening, over that time I began to wonder how in the world you got so smart." He chuckled well heartedly; I met him with my own light laughter

"A lot of things can happen in three years, John. A lot of things did happen, actually."

"Like what?"

"They..." _Fuck it,_ I thought. "They've involved me in the covert missions. I went through special training. My main ability was to be able to be a breathing lie detector test, to figure out people, to size them up and size them down. I guess that's why I can see eye to eye with you're flat mate."

"You're like Sherlock then." He presumed, to which I shrugged.

"Only a little. I couldn't compare to Sherlock, but the fact that I was specifically trained helps quite a bit."

"Right," he said. For a moment I thought he was going to say something, but a bit too late due to police cruisers and ambulances to pull into the parking lot. John and I ducked to the side as paramedics and police officers rushed through. In no time at all Lestrade and his crew were investigating the scene and Sherlock was being escorted out of the building. Sub-consciously I fingered the pill in my pocket. John and I both watched as he was sat on the end of an ambulance with a blanket draped over his shoulders. He kept removing it in annoyance, only to have it be replaced seconds later. I snorted in laughter at the sight of it, until Lestrade walked up to him. From distance I couldn't hear a word they said, but I could see their lips moving with conversation. Eventually Sherlock had turned to see John and I, shrugged Lestrade away, deposited the blanket and began making his way over to us.

"Nice shot," he said to John in particular, but he turned a sly glance my way.

"Yes, yes it was."

"Well you would know."

"Hm, would I?"

"Well you did just shoot the guy." I said plainly. "Oh come on, he was a shit cabby anyway, killing people and the like."

"He was, you should have seen the route he took to get us here." Sherlock's comment both urged giggles out of the lot of us. Passerby's gave us strange looks at the sight of us.

"Shut up!" John muttered. "We're on a crime scene, we're not supposed to giggle."

The three of us fell into a silence; the only noises our footsteps and that of the investigating business behind us.

"So, were you really going to take that pill?"

"Oh course not." Sherlock answered to John. "I was stalling, drawing it out.

"Of course you were," I said

"I wasn't, I-"He didn't get the chance to finish the rest of his sentence. At that moment in time John had reached forward and had nudged his arm, causing him to turn away from me because of the distraction.

"Sherlock," John said. "Sherlock, that's the man I saw earlier." Both of our attentions were directed to John, then to the spot he was staring at. I followed his gaze and landed on that of a man exiting a slim black vehicle.

Sherlock frowned. "I know exactly who that is."

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited, but that's never really your motivation, is it?" The man said lightly.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded.

"As always, worried about you." He quite plainly said.

"I didn't know you were concerned..."

"Did it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no." John and I exchanged a look before turning back to the conversation.

"We have more in common than you'd like to believe," the man continued. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer, and you know how it all upsets mummy."

_Wait. _

_What. _

John and I looked at each other again, the same thoughts going through both of our heads. You've got to be kidding me.

"I upset her?" Came Sherlock's taken aback reply. "Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

"So that's your name-" -Me.

John, interrupting me- "No, no wait. Mummy, who's Mummy?"

"Mother, our mother." Sherlock supplied, and then continued upon seeing John and I's confused expressions. "This is Mycroft, my brother. Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact."

John still hadn't settled. "He's your brother?"

"Of course he's my brother."

"So he's not... I don't know. A criminal mastermind?"

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, obviously distasteful of his sibling. "Close enough."

"Oh for goodness sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government." Mycroft explained, to which Sherlock readily spoke back.

"He is the British government, when he's not too busy being British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis… Good evening Mycroft," Sherlock said as a farewell. "Try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does to the traffic." That was it and we departed soon after, Sherlock taking long strides while John had stuck back. To speak with Mycroft alone, I presumed. I had no intention to speak with him; in the end I simply followed Sherlock.

"So you were in the military with John." He said once I'd taken up stride alongside him.

I smirked. "What gave it away?"

"Two bullet holes well aimed, one from someone with military history and the other... well, it is suspected that they could be of the same history. That and while we were chasing the cab, you called out, 'Come on John, just like the old days'. The old days as in military services."

"Now I'm curious, what else did you figure out?"

"You truly couldn't care less about the state of your hair." To this I tossed my head back in a full-blown laugh, not a snicker, or a snort. A genuine laugh, the first since I'd arrived in London.

I hesitantly patted my hair down atop my head. "It's that bad, huh?"

"Quite." I let the rat nest lay as it did on top of my head. "And..."

"And?"

"Your laugh isn't atrocious."

My laugh died down a bit at his words, his semi compliment. I faintly remembered earlier, his first deduction of me and I managed to crack at light smile at what he was referring to.

I examined his expression. His eyes were solid and set straight forward, shoulders slack, but his jaw was clenched in the slightest. Eventually he noticed my stare, which I met with a grin.

All I managed to say in return was, "I'm taking that as a compliment, just so you know."

And he, of all people, cracked a light smirk at this humorous and completely serious statement. Of course there was nothing else to say after that, simply smile and treat it as the normal do. It would also have it that, at the same time that John would return from his little conversation with Mycroft.

"So," he fell into stride on my right side, Sherlock was stationed on the left. "What'd I miss?"

"My laugh isn't atrocious." I told him.

"I didn't say it- Wait, what?" Now, much louder than before, I launched into a complete caterwaul of a laugh. No mind was paid to the glances and glares we got our way form the noise.

No mind whatsoever.


	2. Episode 2: The Blind Banker

Disclaimer: I do not claim rights or ownership to the Sherlock series, all praise goes to the creators of the show. I am only writing this fanfiction for creative and purposes (basically I have no life except for one at a keyboard!) I do claim ownership, however, to my OC Whitney Morgan and any other character I introduce that is my own. Another wonderful thanks to ThouArtPenguin for being my editor of a sort for this story :} So I hope you enjoy, and if you do, maybe you can vote or tell me what you think? ~ ~ ~ New Message Sent at 10:42 AM, February 12 From-Unknown To- Whitney Morgan It was nice seeing you again, Whitney. It was quite unexpected, but perhaps we should have a chat. It's been , and happy birthday. ~MH No amount of soothing words, ocean sounds or anything even related to being calm could keep my ears from blowing out steam, or my heart from beating erratically. I knew who sent it. It was obvious. Maybe not to you, but it was to me. I was angry and I was alarmed. Of course he had my number, of course! I didn't want him to know I was here nor did I expect to find him here. I did the one thing that felt right. And that, ladies and gents, is how I ended up with a disemboweled phone in my bottom dresser drawer. ~ ~ ~ "So John, I was wondering if you, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson would like to catch lunch or something today. My treat?" My finger twiddled about with the phone's cord. To my right my landlord gave me a pestering gaze. Hurry up, it said. "Today? I could check and- wait. Why doesn't your mobile number show up when you call?" "Phone problems. I think it has water damage, I'm taking it in later." Yeah, okay Whit. "Right. Lunch sounds good though, I'll find some way to convince Sherlock and I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would be delighted." I could hear a groan in the background of John's call, most likely Sherlock. It caused me to smile lightly. "That's fine with me. How about I meet you at your flat and we'll decide then. I'll meet you at… one thirty?" "That sounds great- I've got to go. Sherlock won't stop pestering me to stop talking while he's thinking. Figures." "Tell him to smarten up for me, I'll see you later." "Bye." "Bye John." The call cut off right after. I looked to my landlord, Whatshisname, with his hands on his hips in annoyance. "There, was that so hard? Sheesh." Eyes glared into the back of my skull as I left his flat, figures that his phone line was working and mine wasn't. I'd file a complaint if he didn't stick to his word and call someone to fix it. I swear. Once back in my flat, and out of the sight of my landlord, I plopped myself down on my couch, checking my watch out of habit. 12:04pm. Exactly one hour and twenty-six minutes until lunch. Might as well do something with myself. I stood from the couch and moved into my room to rummage around in my dresser, pulling out a blue blouse and black jeans. Not fancy for anything, but then again, when was I ever fancy? Before getting dressed I hopped into the shower, rinsing off whatever dirt and grime that had built up over the night. Never did I ever linger in a shower for more than over ten minutes. I guess that's what I get for always being so rushed. Being military and all. At least my landlord didn't have to worry much about the water bill. A few minutes later I was out, drying off then getting dressed. I lingered in front of my mirror, eyes glazing over my face. Make-up wasn't my thing, but I didn't think I necessarily needed it. Nonetheless, today was good so I decided to just dab a bit of artificial beauty on my face. Then I even felt the nerve for a necklace and earrings. This is a first, I thought as I studied myself closer now. I looked like a right girl, no trace of hours spent in mud, sleepless nights, battered until completely bruised. It caused me to smile lightly, but I didn't linger on my reflection long. Hastily I tossed my hair into elastic, grabbed my coat, and then left the flat. By the time I was actually standing in front of their residence, the clock had turned to 1:28. Just in time, I thought as I rapped my knuckles across the door. Footsteps sounded from inside before the door flew open and Sherlock, (of all people) stood in the doorway. He was smiling too, his laugh lines visible and eyes scrunched. "John made you answer didn't he?" "Yes." "You know, you could've declined the invitation if you so liked to." His smile dropped and he turned his back, walking up the stairs. The movement was sudden, catching me off guard but I quickly accepted. In the time since I'd arrived in London Sherlock had done a many questionable things. With a roll of my eyes I entered the flat building and closed the door behind me, following him up the stairs and into his and John's flat. John was inside, milling about the room, probably waiting for me like Mrs. Hudson was (who sat across from him and fiddled with a newspaper). "I'm here!" I announced as I stepped through the doorway. They both looked up, smiles instantaneous but nothing at all like the one previously on Sherlock's face. Speaking of, Sherlock had already made his way into the kitchen to do something or other. It probably had to do with his number of experiments and body parts in his refrigerator. I found out in a rather ungraceful way, mind you, but I've seen worse. "Great, ready to go?" John asked. "Yeah, you?" He nodded and rose from his seat. Mrs. Hudson folded her paper and set it on the table. I stuck my hands in my pocket, backing out of the doorway to allow the two of them to walk through. "Sherlock!" John called out. "Come on, we're leaving." "I'm not going!" Was his reply. I laughed lightly, comparing the sentence to that of a child's. To be honest you could relate a lot of things Sherlock does to the actions of a child. Then again he does play with actual body parts so that is irrelevant. "What do you mean you're not going? We talked about this!" "Sherlock dear," came Mrs. Hudson. Again, the entire ordeal seemed amusing to only me. I couldn't keep from laughing at this. Finally, John turned to me. "I'm sorry, Whitney I-" Though now that I'd heard how Sherlock was so dead set on not leaving, I sort of wanted to put him through hell. "Wait," I interrupted John's sentence. "I know how." It popped up in my head just then, and while I hadn't ever planned to use it as leverage, I certainly could. Leaving the two standing at the doorway, I ventured into the flat's kitchen to where Sherlock was busy looking into a microscope on the counter. "If you plan to convince me to come with you now, then you may as well forget it. You gave me a choice, I said no." "Yes you did… Hey, do you remember the cab driver?" "Of course I do, I never forget things unless I mean to-" "I can tell you which pill was poisoned." And just like that I had caught his attention. It's just a shame that as soon as I finished that sentence that I had turned my back and exited the room. I met Mrs. Hudson and John at the door, waiting expectantly. "Well?" John asked. "Give him a sec," it almost felt like it was less than a second. Almost instantaneously Sherlock had prepared himself to go out, his coat, scarf, he had them on and had walked out the door right after me. He shut it behind him then looked to us. "Let's get going, shall we?" They watched, eyes wide, as Sherlock descended the stairs. I glanced to them, grinning smugly before following him down the stairs. Ta-da. Once on the London streets (and once John and Mrs. Hudson stopped gawking) we began our walk, browsing different café's and the like until, after a few minutes of walking, we decided on a quaint little place called Delly's. It was a deli like place, but we soon learned that Delly was spelt as a name of the owner, not a spelling error. We took a table, Sherlock sitting beside Mrs. Hudson and John sitting next to me in the booth seat. A waiter stopped by shortly and set down menus, introduced himself as Thomas and took our drink orders. "So," John began, looking over the menus. "How is London treating you, Whit?" "It's been really-" "I have a better question," Sherlock interrupted, causing me to snap my mouth shut. I gave him a look, though not like the one John or Mrs. Hudson gave him. Again, they seemed to behave in a much more frustrated manner than I did. "Shoot." I gave John a glance, telling him we'd talk in a bit. When I turned back to Sherlock, I leaned forward, half expecting him to ask about the pill. "I'd like to know why you are wearing earrings and a necklace today. You've also seemed to have gotten friendly with your foundation this morning, and you've chosen a color that compliments your eyes-" "Why, thank you." He frowned. Sherlock didn't like it when I made his words into something they weren't. He wasn't actually complimenting my eyes; he was just saying I was trying to get other people to notice them. And maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. It's not like I did it everyday, which was the main reason the detective was noticing this now. "So is it a date you're meeting later or are you just trying to look good for John?" I snorted in laughter. "I thought you said I wasn't his type." "I've changed my deductions since the last time." "Please, do tell." "Hmm." He leaned back with a skeptical eye trained on me. I placed my forearms on the table, clasping my hands together as I waited. "You had a very poor upbringing. Your mother drank; your father came home at odd hours of the night, probably with another woman. It wouldn't make sense for you to have a lot of money at that time, considering the circumstances so… you were poor. You couldn't handle that damaged lifestyle either so the day you turned eighteen you were off. Before that though I expect you weren't too adept of a student, with a distracted upbringing and all. Maybe you spent nights like your mother did, an under aged drinker or a smoker waiting for a way out…" I placed my hand on my chin, smiling sweetly up at Sherlock. "I love it when you're wrong." His fists noticeably clenched at his sides. "But unfortunately for you, I don't care to tell much about my child hood. John doesn't even know. I plan to keep it that way." "So you did have a damaged childhood." "Of course I did." I said with a light scoff, "Everybody had damage at one point." I glanced to John, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock as if to ask. They lowered their heads as if in answer, eyes misting over with some past thoughts. "See? My point exactly." We didn't talk too much until the waiter came by next with our drinks and a notepad to take our orders. One by one we riled off our desired lunches and he turned his back to go to the kitchen. "So," Sherlock finally began. "Explain. The make-up, the clothes, the accessories." Pursing my lips, I contemplated speaking. Deciding I wouldn't be able to hide it for long, I told them. "It's my birthday today." "Wait." Came the first response from John. "Why didn't you tell us?" "I invited you guys out to lunch! Isn't that sort of sending you the message of 'hey, today is special!'" "Well… no!" John's mouth was wide, lightly upturned in a smile of disbelief. It was a strange expression that I found him doing often. Sometimes I'd even note it on others in some circumstances but it wasn't frequently. "Well it's February twelfth so… mark it on your calendar!" ~ ~ ~ After the bill from lunch (where I pressed to pay the entire bill, but we ended up splitting it) we made the decision to head to my flat. It would be the first time they saw it, but they were pleasantly surprised when they first entered. Sherlock was expecting messy, despite having to make my bed in the military with no wrinkles in any fold. Everything was quaintly pruned in my flat, as if I was about to leave at any moment. I was sort of hoping I'd have to; there was always that call for action that grew inside me. Tonight I covered that call with a bottle of wine. We each poured ourselves a glass that situated ourselves in front of the telly. We didn't pay much attention to the moving screen, more so we engulfed ourselves in conversation. Any future plans, hey John have you met a girl, Mrs. Hudson I bet you were a heartbreaker in your day, yada, yada, yada. We droned on, glass after glass, until I excused myself for another bottle. In the kitchen I snooped about a cabinet, contemplating a white or a red. "Which one was it?" The wine had made me a bit disoriented; I would've stopped drinking by now. I turned to glance over my shoulder at Sherlock, who had seemingly followed me. "You're talking 'bout the pills, yeah?" "Of course." "Oh. Then both." I placed the white back in the cupboard. The red had a stronger taste to it, I found. Soon enough red filled the majority of my glass. "What?" "Both of them were poisoned. He lied. He wasn't actually going to take his pill, for Christ's sake. Sure, he'll pop it in his mouth but he'll let you swallow." "How would you know, though?" "Lestrade had the other pill from the scene. Him and I had a conversation; he let me take the other pill to be examined by the specialists. Both were equally as poisoned, but he held the most lethal poison of them all. This poison is a game of the mind. A mind game was his poison." I tipped back the glass and downed a bit of my glass before licking my lips of the sweetness and sighing. I should've stopped drinking by now. "You deduced that he would be playing a mind game? What if he had something to counter-act the poison? What if he had another weapon?" The pressing questions, the pressing questions! They bobbed about in my head, making my vision dull and my senses crackle. One bug headache had started over my right eye and I had to use force to keep it open. "Because I've 'disposed' of people the same way! It's a simple method, Sherlock. You deduce because you can't relate to people, I deduce because I can." It wasn't loud enough, thank God, for Mrs. Hudson or John in the other room to hear. They were pleasantly oblivious, but Sherlock wasn't showing anything other than indifference toward my confession. "So you have blood on your hands. More than you care to admit, more than you would have John know. I'll admit, it took you enough to drink to admit it but- I would've stopped drinking by now. That little shit. "You, Sherlock Holmes, are a complete arse. You selfish cock!" Had he been refilling my glass whenever I wasn't looking? It had been awhile since I've had a drink, he would know. He would know it wasn't tolerated where I stood. I had a weakness to it; he took that as an advantage. He wanted to get this out of me? "You want to figure me out, you want to know me like you know one of your little friends in the morgue. You won't know my past unless I want you to, you won't know a damn thing until I decide if I want you to or not. I have the cards in my hands." My glass was on the counter, and my arm was in a fury of flames. I was so tempted to smash it on the counter, so tempted to hit something. I kept my hands clenched at my sides. Bad things happen when I get angry. Bad things happen when I drink, then I can't control my emotions then… I looked Sherlock in the eyes. "It's time for you to go." I took a glance at the wine glass, then squeezed my eyes shut. When they opened again, I was a new character in a new environment. The friend who got drunk and passed out at her own party. My eyes were droopy, my movements were noodly, and my speech would be slurred. In my right hand I grabbed the wine glass and had the bottle in my other hand. With a curious Sherlock watching, I made my way into the other room. "Alright!" I called, "It's nearly midnight, I've had a few glasses too many-" I faked a drunk hiccup, "I think you guys should go before I fall on my ass somewhere." I giggled stupidly. The act seemed to convince them, and they each grabbed their coat. They told me they had fun, Mrs. Hudson kissed my cheek, I have John a good hug, and I even managed one for Sherlock. As soon as they had left, my wine glass had flown across the room and shattered into pieces. Red liquid slid down the wall where the glass had hit. It reminded me of blood. No, I thought to myself. Get a hold of yourself Whitney! Don't let it- Something on the door clicked. The mail slot, I realized, had slid open. It's a little too late for mail, but nonetheless, a white envelope with a red wax seal slipped through the slot. I picked it up from the floor, glancing at the door before ripping open the envelope and looking at its contents. It was a letter, written in fine handwriting. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes. Bad things will happen if you do not comply. ~MH A low growl began forming in my chest, angry and feral. The letter was ripped to shreds in my hands, and fell to the floor like flakes of snow. I had no deep breathing exercises to calm me, no ocean waves or jungle sounds. In this stupor, I slowly lowered myself to the floor and formed the fetal position. That's where I slept that night. ~ ~ ~ "-So, to answer your question, yeah. Jared is doing good." "Good God, I forgot how much you liked to talk, but it's good to hear good news about your brother." I nudged John playfully on the shoulder, one hand full of groceries. We made our way to the store checkout; the both of us ready to get back home. The first product went through no problem, and it was quickly placed in the bag. The second followed suit, then the third, etc. Unfortunately that little short span of good fortune wasn't to last. These self-checkout machines have a history of screwing up your day. When it came to one of the final items, it finally spoke out. "Unexpected item in bagging area." John grimaced, taking the item out, placing it back in until the voice shut off. Now he went to pay with his card, but again it spoke. "Invalid, please wait for an employee to assist you." "Oh damn it!" John shouted as he continuously tried to pay for his groceries. It was all in vain. After that it was our duty to stay where we stood in wait for an employee. We would need a worker to key in the code before we could get any further. "Come on Whitney." He finally said, having had it with the object. I let out a chuckle at his beet red face. "John-" he turned, arms crossed. I took a look at the keypad, fingering in a few digits before the alert went away and I retrieved a card from my own wallet. Just a little something I'd nicked off of Sherlock before we'd left… In a flash I had finished purchasing our goods and had John carrying one of our grocery bags. "How in the world did you do-" I gave him a look. "Right, military. You know I wish you'd tell me a few of your tricks, they really do come in handy." I offered him a shrug of the shoulders. "Maybe, pickpocketing is always a plus though." I held out Sherlock's card to John. "You're responsible for giving it back to him by the way." "You took his… Well he did owe me." "That's the spirit." I grinned. We made our way out of the grocery shop and continued our ten-minute trek back to 221B, John carrying one bag and I carrying the other. "Are you ever going to tell me what it is you really do?" He suddenly asked, seemingly out of nowhere. "What I really do?" "There's obviously more you're not telling me. I think if you're going to get… involved in our lives we should at least know about you." I rolled my eyes. "What I do at 'work' will never interfere with what you and Sherlock do unless it is needed." "Why would it be needed?" He asked, to which I offered him a light shrug. "In case you lot get yourself into inexcusable trouble. I can laugh on the sidelines and offer you a hand when you've hit rock bottom." John pursed his lips, thoughtfully considering this. "Well that's nice of you." Sarcasm, I noted. "Ain't it?" By that time we'd reached the flat's door and had let ourselves in. Sitting exactly where he had been when we first left was Sherlock in his chair. "It took you two long enough…" He said upon us entering, his face was currently buried in the screen of a laptop. I placed my grocery bag on the table. "John got in a fight with a checkout machine. Quite a row." Sherlock lifted his gaze just over the laptop, directing his skepticism toward John. "With a machine?" "You just had to tell him, didn't you Whit?" "I enjoy watching you suffer, John." He didn't return my smile, but I simply shrugged that off and began sorting through the groceries. John, however, had seen something that had caught his eye. "Is that my laptop?" He asked, and indeed Sherlock had a certain someone's computer in front of him. "Of course," came Sherlock. "Mine was in the bedroom." "Lazy bastard," I snickered. "Whitney, the amount of profanity coming from your lips indicates you have a lack of intelligence." "You know that isn't true, Sherly." "Please refrain from calling me that ever again." "Oh will you two stop!" John snatched his computer from Sherlock and snapped it shut. "You fight like an old married couple." "Oh please," I said, jerking my head toward the table that held his bills. "You're the one that's broke. I'm single; I'm overflowing with money. You have some strange relationship with Sherlock, which is totally fine, and you can't even afford your flat." "We are not-" "I know John! I was just teasing." "You know," began Sherlock, who had risen from his spot and had taken his coat as if to leave. "Despite your accusation it would seem you two are the married couple." I felt my brow furrow in a frown, paying no mind to his previous statement. "Where are you off to?" "The bank." "Right. John and I are following then?" "Of course." I had already risen to grab my coat and already had John's in hand. I tossed it to him. A light buzz had started in my head. Wherever Sherlock went you could be sure excitement followed. "You know Sherlock, I love the way you just jump up at things without any detailed explanation. Ah, so refreshing." "You're the only one that thinks so." Muttered John as he reluctantly slid his coat on. "Pish posh," I said, and then we were out the door. It didn't take us long to reach the bank, perhaps only a fifteen minute cab ride and we were walking through the revolving doors of the place. It consisted of many windows, grey colors and people who wore suits a bit too tight. Everybody looked dressed to impress. Everybody looked damn miserable. Before we knew it, we were buzzing past those miserable people behind glass facades and being pushed into a room that was suited like an executives office. I glanced around, mentally noting anything that looked interesting. "Ah, Sherlock Holmes." A voice quickly greeted warmly. I turned to find another friendly (not really) face smiling at us three. "Sebastian," Sherlock greeted and shook the man's hand. "This is my friend John Watson and-" "Colleague," John quickly replied. "It's alright, I'll be your friend." I pat his back good-naturedly; grinning like the Cheshire cat, mad as can be. Even from at this angle though, Sherlock's exhausted eye roll was noticeable. Good, I wanted to make his life a living hell after what happened the night of my birthday. The bugger deserved it. "Well," Sebastian said, his smile still incredibly fake. "Right." He moved to shake John's hand, who complied, I followed suit right after. "Well, grab a seat. Want a water, coffee?" "No thank you." "No." "Sure. Black, two sugars please and thank you." This sentence earned myself an odd look from the three of them. No one is ever actually expecting someone to take the offer. Then again the unexpected is what I like best. Sebastian, having found I was completely serious, ushered an assistant off to go do my bidding. While this happened, John and Sherlock had both taken a seat in front of the desk. I decided to stand behind them. It put Sherlock and Sebastian on edge, I could feel it. What is wrong with you Whitney? Cooperate, damn it! I glanced around for a seat, finding one by the corner, I slid it over and nicely sat down. My lips remained shut. "So you're doing well, you've been abroad a lot." Sherlock finally said once I'd sat down. "Well, some." "Flying all the way around the world, twice in a month?" I raised a brow, trying to see on Sebastian what Sherlock saw on him. I checked for items on his desk, different twinges of accent change- nothing. What was Sherlock seeing? "Ah, he and I went to Uni together." This time he spoke to John. "He had a trick he used to do." "It's not a trick." "He could look at you and tell you your whole life story." "Yes sir," John replied. "I've seen him do it." "Well," he turned to look at Sherlock again. "What was it? A stain on my tie? Mud on my shoes?" "I was chatting with your secretary outside." I held back the laughter that was tempted to release. Luckily a woman came in not a moment later carrying a mug of coffee. She passed it to me, I thanked her, and she excused herself. A long sip of the brew told me it was stale coffee, microwave heated, and only one sugar. Those cheapos. Nonetheless, every coffee has the same affect. "Well, I'm glad you could make it." Sebastian said. God, I could not get over his smile. He was trying so hard to contain his annoyance. It was obvious. "We've had a break in. "Ah, this is where the fun begins." I commented. Sherlock offered no look of chastisement; it was obvious he had the same idea in mind. Sebastian led us to the scene of the crime shortly after where we found a portrait, but on and beside that portrait were two odd symbols. That I recognized. My grip tightened on the mug in my hands, threatening to shatter it. Why? Why here? I looked to Sherlock. I couldn't… I- "Excuse me, I need some air." I spun on my heels, removing myself from the room. No one bothered to watch me as I left, making the fastest effort I could to the nearest restroom. It came as a relief when I found it unoccupied. No time was wasted as I rifled around in my coat's pockets, searching for something, something, something… Ah. There it was. The clear bottle, no larger than my index finger yet holding sixty tablets that were supposed to make things easier. I turned it about in my hand, glancing over the label just for a reminder of my plague until I popped the cap open and two tablets spilt into my palm. Two powdery tablets, which I quickly swallowed with help from some stale coffee. After that, everything just seemed better, my emotions cooled, became controllable. Soon after that I made my way out of the bathroom. What I walked into was something I didn't really expect. When I walked back to the scene everything was completely normal. Workers typed away on their computer keyboards, straightened their ties, and crossed their legs, normal things. Except for Sherlock. That was also expected. Paying no mind to the workers around him, he bobbed his head up and down over the cubicles through the room, finding different positions to look at the markings in yellow spray paint. I fought the apprehension growing inside me, but the pills quickly doused that and a light buzz began to comfort me. Sherlock, from what I could tell, was finding multiple ways as to where he could see the paint, probably to find out who saw it first. I watched as others watched him, probably thinking him as the most peculiar person they've seen, but quickly moving back to their pressing typing. I leaned against a wall, smiling lightly as I watched Sherlock goofily maneuver himself through the office. "Don't mind him folks," I assured, and then took the remaining sip of coffee. "He's a sociopath, this is sort of expected by now." Sherlock lifted his gaze as if just realizing I'd been watching. I managed a smile. "Find out who saw it first?" To answer my question he peered past a set of pillars, looked in a three sixty then set his eyes on a nametag of an office's door. "Vancoon," he read from the tag, then slid it off of the door and pocketed it. "Wonderful." But it really wasn't. Not for me. Shortly after we met up with John again, finding him continuing a conversation with Sebastian. We pulled him away, and then began our exit from the building. "So how did you know about the two trips around the world? You obviously didn't ask his secretary, you said that just to irritate him." John said. "Did you see his watch? The time was right but the date was wrong. It said two days ago." "And all in a month, how'd you figure that?" "Brietling, the brand of his watch. It only came out this February." "Damn, I checked everything but not the watch." I pursed my lips with disappointment. Better luck next time, eh? "So are we ready to go? I'm ready to go." "Absolutely." Sherlock agreed. "So wait- did you find anything?" John pressed, obviously behind on Sherlock's discoveries. "Of course. That writing was a message, a message intended for one of the employees upstairs. Now, considering there are quite a few people working in this building, the fact that the message could only be seen from a select few places due to the pillars was helpful. That and the message was left near mid-night." "And who works late at night with a great view of a certain painting?" I continued for him. Sherlock flashed him the nametag. "Edward Vancoon." I grinned at John, amused at how dumbfounded he seemed with his eyebrows high and his eyes wider than usual. "Taxi!" I called, still chuckling. Sherlock was the one that fed the taxi driver directions to our next destination. John and I just sat quietly in the back with him, exchanging glances, wondering where he was taking us. For only about fifteen minutes we sat in complete silence until the cab screeched to a stop. We paid the driver then made our way onto the sidewalk. When I let my eyes wander I saw the tall flat building before us. Sherlock advanced forward, not waiting for our reactions. Like usual, we followed without asking any questions. He strode up to the intercom and pressed his finger against the buzzer. For a little while, nothing happened. "So what do we do now?" John asked, having come to the realization that nobody was home. "Sit here and wait for him to come back?" Him obviously being Edward Vancoon. "Just moved in. Look," Sherlock pointed to a tiny white tag by a buzzer. Written on it in sloppy scrawl was 'Wintle'. At the moment I failed to see how the little tag was significant in any way, though Sherlock usually proved things to be interesting, so I waited. This time he buzzed 'Wintle', and we waited for a response. "Hello?" –Came a female's voice from the intercom. "Hi," Oh my goodness. "I live in the flat just below you." I couldn't help it, I had to turn away to keep from bursting out in laughter. The hilarity of this, of his voice sounding so… feminine, was overwhelming. "I don't think we've met." Goodness, he's even smiling. This bloke really commits, huh? "Uh, well no. I just moved in." "Oh, well actually I've locked my keys in my flat." "Do you want me to buzz you up?" "Yeah… and can I use your balcony?" Oh my God, did he just really? "What?" My reaction exactly. Nonetheless, we found ourselves being buzzed up by the woman- er, more so Sherlock was. John and I stayed in the hallway and began making our way to where Sherlock had told us Vancoon's flat was. We waited quite some time, actually, as Sherlock took his time. He'd taken the woman's balcony, as apprehensive as she was about it, and had used that to jump to the balcony of Vancoon's flat. A little bit daring, but I didn't dare let it impress. He still had yet to actually let us into the flat. A few times, John even buzzed the door to ask him. It wasn't until ten minutes later, and I was counting, that Sherlock let us in. He escorted us through the flat and into a room. A body lay on the bed. Edward Vancoon, I concluded. John had called Scotland Yard as soon as he'd found that body, and before we knew it the room was swimming with investigators. Cameras flashed as they took pictures of the evidence, people mulled about the apartment. I'd started examining the body, glancing to the bullet wound in the man's head and to the gun on the bed beside him. "Can someone grab me a pair of gloves?" I asked. I had a few look strangely at me, but I gave them a look. "I'm military, Lestrade and Sherlock approve, now get me a pair of damn gloves." "I'm afraid we can't allow-" "Read my lips." I said, cutting off whatever the nearest inspector was about to say. "I'm going to introduce you to my 'Three Time's the Charm' rule. I asked you for gloves once, I asked you twice, if I have to ask you a third time then you are going out of that fucking window." My finger jabbed at the direction of the window; I glared heatedly at the man before me. After a minute, I was sliding a pair of protective gloves over my hands. I didn't even have to throw him off of the balcony. I went to work, picking up the gun and examining it. I pulled out the clip, inspecting it. Two bullets gone. Funny… he wouldn't have missed if it were a suicide. I slid the clip back in and stood over the body to look over the bullet wound in his temple. It was a clean shot, right through the skull, but the type of bullet that ripped through his brain wasn't the same as those in his gun. The size of the wound and the actual bullets gave it away. Isn't that queer? "You think he lost a lot of money?" John asked Sherlock while I was still rooting about the scene. "It's pretty common among city boys." "I don't think it was suicide." "Oh come on, the door was locked from the inside. You'd have to climb from the balcony." Exactly, I thought. It sounds like something I'd do. "He's been gone for three days by the looks of his suitcase. There's also been something heavily compressed in there… Now lets think. What was the yellow paint for? Why not email, or text, or something else?" "Maybe he wasn't answering?" John questioned to Sherlock's inquiry. "Good, you follow." "No, actually." Sherlock sighed audibly in frustration. "What's a message everyone tries to avoid?" "A death threat." I answered, slipping the gloves from my hands. Sherlock sauntered past and stood over the body, investigating as well. "Exactly…" He reached into the man's mouth, for what, I didn't know. Not until he withdrew his hand and a black shard of a mystery material came out in his grasp, it was soon deposited in a plastic bag. I questioned it, a bullet shard maybe? It was the answer I settled for. I didn't have much time to settle for anything else; in the next moment footsteps were thumping against the floor toward us. A man rounded the corner, stopping, and his hands on his hips. "Ah, good you're here, Sergeant." Sherlock said, turning from his spot and going to shake the man's hand. "Yes," he didn't accept his rare offer of a handshake. "And I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with the evidence." Getting the clue, Sherlock handed over the baggie with the shard to the man. "I've phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?" "He's busy. I'm in charge." I would've usually commented on his attitude, but I was under the influence of meds. For some reason the temptation hardly crossed my mind. "And it's not sergeant. It's Detective Inspector. Dimmock." Now I made a remark. "That is very offensive. Charlie Dimmock would have your neck right about now." This 'Detective Inspector' gave me a very peeved look, to which a simply rolled my eyes. "Don't be an arse, otherwise you'll end up with my foot up yours." "And who are you?" He questioned. Tension had risen considerably. "Military, please don't make me explain. Long, long story." Apparently he didn't need to be told anything else, because in the next moment he was walking away. The three of us (Sherlock, John and I) exchanged a bewildered glance before we followed soon after. "It was a suicide." He shared once we'd entered the next room. "It does seem that way." John continued. I cut in. "But it wasn't." Sherlock gave me a look, his eyes filled with something I didn't quite register. Appreciation? Meh, doubt it. "Yes, it was." The Detective Inspector said. "Oh God, I have to explain now. The bullet that went through his head is a different shape and size. Vancoon had a handgun? His bullets would've been smaller that the one he actually was shot by. It's hard to see, but I know my bullet holes. Not to mention, two bullets from his clip had been shot. Now I don't think he would miss the first shot of his suicide attempt. Do you?" "That was a wonderful, semi-lacking deduction Whitney. I'll take it from here-" Sherlock pleasantly interrupted. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." "I'm aware of that. Anyways, Vancoon was left-handed but the wound was on the right side of his head. That requires quite a bit of contortion." "Left handed?" The man seemed a bit baffled by Sherlock's gutsy assumption. Little did he know that it wasn't actually an assumption, but a very educated observation. "It's easy to notice, all you have to do is look around his flat. Coffee table on the left hand side, coffee mug with its handle pointing to the left. Power sockets, he habitually uses the ones on the left, paper on the left hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and wrote with his left. Do you want me to go on?" "No," John said. "I think we get the point." "Well I might as well, I'm almost at the bottom of the list." "I should get popcorn." "Please, Whitney, for the love of God… shut up. Now look, there's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left hand. It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of the head. Conclusion is someone broke in here and murdered him. The only explanation of all the facts." I felt like I should be writing notes right now, this stuff could be useful. "He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened." "What?" The man, ever so perplexed asked. "Today at the bank, there was a message." John supplied. "He fired a shot when the man came in," Sherlock, from the other side of the room as he grabbed his coat. "And the bullet?" "It went through the open window." "Oh come on," he scoffed in disbelief. "What are the chances of that?" "Decent enough." Sherlock said. "Just wait until you get the report. The bullet fired from his gun wasn't his." "Well if it wasn't from his own gun, then how did the killer get in?" "Good," Sherlock barely kept back a devious smile. "You're finally asking the right questions." He disappeared out the door, John hesitating but following soon after. As I left, I paused at the door and looked to the detective. "By the way, that thing Sherlock did back there," of course I was referring to his deduction skills. "Consider that as my 'up yours'." And I disappeared behind the door in the next second. It was the final stop we were going to make today, which suited me just fine. The sun was setting already and had long since settled below the horizon when we actually reached the restaurant. We were seeing Sherlock's bank 'friend' from earlier today. As we continued on inside, I realized we would be interrupting a lovely get together. The murmuring at the table buzzed excitedly as they droned on with their stories. The only time it cut out was when Sherlock appeared, the bearer of bad news. "It was a threat," he said. A frown dented the man's forehead. "I'm kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?" I looked at the faces of those at the table. The residue of laughter was still evident on their expressions. This wasn't like any of the meetings I'd been to. "I don't think this can wait Sebastian-" Ah, so that was his name. I had forgotten. "One of your traders, someone who works in your office was killed." "It was Vancoon," John said. "We were just at his flat." "Killed?" "Dead as a doornail," I confirmed. "Sorry if you have trouble swallowing that last morsel, fellas." I offered a look of not so sincere apology as I rolled on my heels. I could tell Sherlock had a bit of difficulty from holding back a smile from my last remark. He turned to Sebastian, "Care to still make an appointment? Maybe nine 'o'clock at Scotland Yard?" Now under heat and pressure, Sebastian loosened his tie around his neck. Gradually he rose from his chair and the three men made their way to the men's bathroom for whatever privacy that allowed them. I turned and cut into the women's restroom, glad no one had occupied the area. For a little while I stared at myself in the mirror. Why am I helping Sherlock with this case, of all cases? This was dangerous; he had no idea what he was meddling with. The yellow paint in the bank, I knew what it said, I knew how to decipher it… I couldn't tell him I knew, but if I opted out of this completely then they'd be suspicious. Where did my loyalties lie here? With Sherlock and John, the army, or… them. I still had yet to decide, but I knew I couldn't get Sherlock off of his current path. Not without him finding out. Maybe even then my secret would spill like red wine on a white rug. I couldn't let that happen, not after all of my hard work. I had to think. How would I save myself? How could I save John and Sherlock? This case is leading to dangerous people… I couldn't bear it if they got themselves hurt. As I looked in the mirror, I looked into the eyes of a liar. And it hurt. "Whitney? Come on, we're leaving know." A pair of knuckles rapped against the restroom door, followed by Sherlock's voice. Obediently I withdrew from the mirror and exited the restroom. As we left the restaurant, all the way until I was dropped off at my flat by a cab, I was dead silent. By the time the sun was peaking through my window the next morning, I was up and already dressed for the day. My mood had drastically dampened from that of the day before. Maybe it was the meds wearing off. Without them my moods tended to jump erratically. My morning consisted of absolutely nothing. I made breakfast, I checked my email, I read a book. Nothing happened, and I wasn't okay with that. I needed to be out instead of inside and trapped like a helpless mutt found wandering the streets. Maybe that's why when my flat's phone line (now operational after it had been fixed recently) began to ring; I jumped nearly a foot in the air to grab it. "Hello?" I answered instantaneously. "Whitney, your're needed." "Sherlock? Good to know, please tell me something interesting has happened." "There's been another murder," he said, and I dismissed whatever guilt I had for getting excited by this news. "I'll give you the address, meet us there as soon as you can." So he belted out the words to me, and I committed them to memory. It wasn't until I had my coat on and I was just heading out of my door that I realized there was a note laying perfectly folded on the floor. I leaned over and picked it up, flipping the smooth paper open. I've warned you. ~MH The paper crumpled in my fist and I shot the scrap paper toward the garbage bin in the kitchen. Perfectly aimed, it landed in the bin. "Nothing but net," I said right before I exited my flat. The journey to the location was nothing but a ten-minute cab ride away, and as I stepped out of the cab, and the familiar faces of the police officers of Scotland Yard welcomed me. Ah, refreshing. I bounded forward, eager to get down to whatever bloody business was in store. Right as I was about to enter the flat, a hand flew out in front of me. "Who are you?" A rough looking police officer questioned. "Whitney Morgan. Sherlock invited me. We're having a play date." I beamed giddily, then ducked under his arm, threw the door opened and scampered inside. I was gone before he could even register what had happened. As I ducked under caution tape that lined the stairs, I couldn't help but feel nervous. I know I was trained to be better, but this was cutting things close. Nonetheless, the night prior I had decided to continue with Sherlock and John on this mission. If not to finish my own mission, then to protect the both of them from harm that this may cause them. "-They think they're impregnable." I obviously burst into the room at the wrong time. "What about pregnancy?" I questioned quickly. My eyes gathered the room together, and I grimaced when I saw the Detective Inspector from yesterday. "Oh," and I directed my next words to only him. "When are you expecting then?" "Oh, you've got to be kidding me." The Inspector quite evidently face-palmed, letting his hand slide down his face as if to rub out the tension. Try as he may, nothing was going to get rid of those wrinkles. "Enough, I invited her." Sherlock said. "I can vouch, and she can be of assistance." He hurried past me, not so much saying a 'hello' or a 'how are you'. Then again the slimy bugger never did. I suppose I could relate in a way. It's better when you can get down to the point. "It doesn't matter right now, we're dealing with a killer who can climb." He wandered into one of the other rooms, pausing when he reached a window and began banging it to open it. "What are you doing?" The Detective Inspector asked. Honestly, I think that was the question we were all thinking. "He clings to the walls like an insect." The window popped open. "That's how he got in. He climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof and dropped in through this window. This man is dangerous. He scaled six stories of an apartment building to kill Vancoon, and that's also how he's gotten into the bank. He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace." Already the Inspector looked like he'd had enough. His mouth open to speak, but thank goodness I stopped him before he could make a fool of himself. "I've done it." I said, which drew their attention. "Scale buildings and the like. Remember John? I told you about the types of missions I was on, I had to scale places far more dangerous than a bank. That was also without supports, so I see how this one man could do this without getting caught." "Really?" Sherlock looked at me curiously. He was distracted for a moment before he shook himself out of that stupor and continued on with his work. "Never mind, we have to find what relates these two men." After a moment of his own silent thought, he had made his way down the stairs, picking up a book that sat on one of the ledges and had sped out the door. "Oh bloody hell." I cursed, following him, John followed suit. Yet another cab (there've been a lot of them lately…) pulled to the curb upon Sherlock's signal and whisked us away. "West Kensington Library." He ordered. Not too much longer we were at our destination, stalking through library isles filled to the brim with bookshelves and novella. "The date stamped on this book," Sherlock held up the book he's received at the house. "Is the same date as when he was murdered." He began rooting through the shelves, taking out books and inspecting them. It left John and I with nothing else to do but the exact same thing. "So John," I began. "How has your day been? Action packed, I bet." "I've applied for a job, actually." "Yeah? Good for you! What you doin'?" "Surgeon," he said with a light smile. I bobbed my head, approving of his choice. It made sense since he was majorly a doctor in the time that he'd served in the military. That and I bet he'd have the credentials. I would know, I still had his file. "Wait," he said suddenly. I turned my head, as did Sherlock to view whatever it was he had discovered. More yellow spray paint. Another message. My gut tensed, my brain became muddled as incoherent thoughts stirred. I subconsciously reached about in my pockets for my medication bottle. "Well," I swallowed a lump in my throat. "That does it then." We made a short stop back at 221B to piece together bits of the puzzle we hadn't yet solved. I sat quietly and observantly, praying Sherlock hadn't noticed my behavior. When we had stepped into the flat I had managed to pop in a pill, but even that had its limitations to it's effects. Nonetheless, I felt calmer still. After Baker Street though, we had hitched a ride to somewhere else. At the time I hadn't really listened to where we were going, only that Sherlock was in need for 'help', and he wasn't too kind when admitting it. John seemed quite smug about it though, which may be the reason for Sherlock's short temper at the time. In the end though, we still found ourselves in an ally, looking for someone John and I had never seen before. Sherlock liked to keep strange company, especially strange if their meeting was in an ally. We found ourselves, not too long after we exited our mode of transportation, walking toward someone in the ally. Your typical ruffian, if you'd like to call it that. Just a guy spray-painting whatever he liked on the side of a building. Officers would call this defiling the public. I didn't call it anything. In fact, I sort of liked it. "Part of my new exhibition." He said as we neared. I wasn't surprised since our footsteps were loud enough. "I call it… Urban Bloodlust Frenzy." "What a romantic." My snide remark didn't go unnoticed. "Catchy," John's remark sent the same message. Him and I both exchanged a look. The difference between mine and his was that I was actually smiling. "I've got two minutes before a community support officer comes around that corner, can we do this when I'm not workin'?" Neither John nor I said a word; we let Sherlock do the work right now. He only held out his phone to the guy, who took it and examined whatever was displayed on the screen. "Know the author?" Sherlock questioned him. I peered over the phone, recognizing the images on the screen. He had taken pictures of the yellow spray painted messages. "Zinc," he said. "But I don't understand what they mean… I'll ask around." The guy ensured, but it would seem our conversation was cut short. An 'Oy!' echoed off of the ally walls not a moment later, and just as the guy had predicted, two community support officers had rounded the cover. Sherlock and his friend had bolted on sight, and I had intended to as well, but the same couldn't be said for John. He was stiff as a statue, and showed no signs of budging. "What the hell do you think you're doing? This gallery is a listed public building." "No, no. Wait-… wait." "Hello sirs," I took over then. It seemed the only thing John could get out of his mouth was rubbish. "Detective Lestrade, Scotland Yard." I flashed the badge that I still had conveniently stored away in my pocket. "I've got this ruffian under control." "Is that so?" "Of course." John and I exchanged a discreet glance. "Listen boys," I leaned forward and lowered my voice. "I'm working on a murder case, alright? It'd be nice if you two moved to your respectful locations while I ask this man some questions. As for the two that ran well… I know where they are located. Now please, allow me to resume my work." My voice was stern enough that the two men bobbed their heads obediently and retreated backwards. "How-" "You already know the answer John. Now come on, we have to go find Sherlock." A phone call to Sherlock led us, once again, back to the flat 221B. Upon entering, Sherlock, with his back turned, greeted us. "Well, you've been awhile." "We had a talk with the police, Sherly." I bitterly replied to his shite greeting. Before I had been drowsy, then giddy, now I was angry. God, I was just waiting for the meds to kick in. "Whitney just had to lie to the police. Because of you and your friend!" John hollered in fury. An angry John was a funny sight most of the time. Now? Not so much. "To be honest, I've done worst but that's besides the point. Sherlock," I soothed my voice. "You need to quit being such an arse. It's truly tiring." "I'm glad you think so…" He droned on. He obviously hadn't registered a word I'd just said. "Any how, we have work to do." "Ah!" I shook my head. "Nope! I'm going out this afternoon, sorry. I've a meeting that I can't miss." "A meeting?" John now distracted from his ferocity toward Sherlock questioned. "With who?" "An old friend of mine that I ran into a week ago. We planned this outing a few days ago. I don't care if you mind or not, I'm going." Already I had tightened my coat around my waist, and placed my hat on my head once again. I watched as John and Sherlock stared dubiously before I spun and exited the door. It wasn't a lie, if that's what you're wondering. At least not entirely. The night before, when I was dropped off at my flat after the meeting at the restaurant, I had called him. I needed to tell him about this case, I needed his input. I needed to think about what to tell him. This made me choose the tube over taking the cab. Sometimes you just need the loud atrocious noises of the public in your ears instead of complete silence. For me, I can have one or the other, but never in between. Today felt like a day when I didn't want my thoughts to drift into the silence, I wanted them to be clouded with noise. The sudden jerking stop of the tube brought my thoughts to a close, and as the doors to our section were opened, I exited the mode of transport. People were littered like leaves in the wind. Some with definite directions, and others wondering where they would place their next move. I paid no more mind to these people than what they were worth at the time, and instead left the station entirely. Once I felt the sunlight on my face, I knew I was out of the station. Once I looked around I realized I was closer than ever to my destination. Foreign decorations covered the street, and exotic architecture stood proudly wherever I looked. It was only a small section of China Town that I still had yet to discover, but I didn't have the luxury to at this time. Instead I let my eyes wander according to my current path until my path stopped in front of a dainty Chinese restaurant, and I entered. It didn't take me long to find him, sitting at the very back of the restaurant. He already had his eyes glued to me. Leisurely, I made my way toward him and sat down across from the familiar face. "Zhang, I'm very pleased you could meet with me today." My hands folded over the table before us. We were both in our respective characters now, calculative, and prepared for the slightest hint of action. We were always on our toes. "Li Dun Nai." I paid no mind to this title, given that it was established as my own name under our operations. "I as well." His slanted, well-adapted eyes had narrowed on me. For a moment I took the time to observe Zhang. I knew him well from operations from the 'old days'. He was my right hand man, and the first person I'd go to if stuck in a situation like this. "I have some news concerning The Black Lotus." "Go on." "I know of a Detective who has been rooting around on the matter. He has uncovered our scripture and is deciphering it as we speak. I fear he will discover the organization and our efforts will go to waste." Zhang didn't say a word to this. His already wrinkled brow became tenser, and he had clasped his hands together. "This is ill news… but we must not let this detective come between our plans. It has to be your job to prevent him from further investigation. Otherwise we risk being compromised." "I cannot. You don't know him; he's unlike anyone I've ever met. He see's things, things others pass up. This is Sherlock Holmes I'm talking about." At this I could see him tense. Just as I was, he was well informed of Sherlock. We had to be, considering whom we were working under. "Then you use him to your advantage." He suddenly became solemn. "You use his abilities and twist them to what you want. I've seen you at work Whitney. I've seen you at your best, and your most dangerous. You need to wrap him around your finger, even if that means sacrifice. The Black Lotus cannot be disrupted because of him." Zhang quickly removed himself from his chair and reached into his breast pocket. From it he withdrew a simple envelope and set it before me. I swallowed, but kept my eyes between him and the envelope. "What is this?" "Sooner or later we were going to meet again because of what this envelope contains. I'm glad you called me, now I can give you this. Once matters are settled then you give this to him and The Black Lotus will have no more troubles." Zhang straightened his jacket, running a hand through sleek black hair. "Goodbye, Li Dun Nai, it was nice to see you again." I watched as he left me where I sat, staring at the envelope. Quickly I took it and stuffed the paper in my jacket, and rose. I left the restaurant immediately after, keeping a straight path down the sidewalk. My curiosity kept my thoughts on the contents of the envelope, but I refrained from pulling it out and examining whatever it held captive. It wasn't just the envelope that kept me on edge, but also The Black Lotus. Better yet, Sherlock and John's efforts. I couldn't let them sabotage all of my hard work, not when so much was on the line. The fact that they were oblivious made it even worse, but it wasn't like I could just saunter up to them and tell them my secret. They'd resent me, and despise me. For some reason that had become an unbearable thought that I didn't dare plague myself with, then again, nightmares acted independently. I'd had my fill of thoughts as of late too. At the moment all of my thoughts were amuck, and nothing seemed to- "Whitney?" Speak of the devils. "Ah wonderful, I was going to call but considering you still don't have a cell phone-" My sights set on the pair. John and Sherlock conveniently making their way through China Town. God help me. "John? Sherlock? Huh, coincidence ain't it? Meeting you two here." We came to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk once we were close enough, and I continued to hide any reason they might be suspicious of me. "Yes, quite, anyhow we need you to come with us. Right now." Again, Sherlock with his 'get to the point' attitude. I had no problem with it, really, I just liked to make not of it and how it failed to annoy me while I could already see John rolling his eyes. "Alright," I agreed. "Where to?" "Museum. Let's not lose time. Come on." Already he had begun marching off in a distinct direction. John and I exchanged a look between friends, the hidden message between such a look being something about how exhausted we were by Sherlock's behavior. I went along with it, simply because I could understand how he felt. Nonetheless our feet carried us after the detective. He avoided the tube and taxi cabs altogether as he continued on right until he stopped in front of a large building that looked old in architecture. I tilted a brow, sending my gaze his way. By this time we were well out of China Town. "A museum? I thought you were pulling my leg." I remarked, to which he gave no answer except for his entrance of the building. With an eye roll I tentatively followed. The sights inside were pleasing to the eyes, I could only imagine the type of field day a historian would have in here. So many styles of pottery and a many number of various artifacts hung on walls and sat behind glass casings. For a while I was quite distracted by the aged beauty, but only until Sherlock knocked me from my reverie with his voice. "When did you last see her?" I was confused as to whom this question was directed to, or if this was Sherlock's introductory sentence to the person. I might've been too distracted earlier to hear their introduction, but my eyes and ears were now completely focused on the matter at hand. "Three days ago, and here at the museum." Answered a boy, probably in the twenties but I found it difficult to give him the title of 'man'. It wasn't anything against him, it just didn't feel right. Not with the curly hair of his, or the soft voice he had. "This morning they'd told me she'd resigned, just like that. Just left her work unfinished." "What was the last thing that she did, on her final afternoon?" Sherlock inquired. At the moment I was still in the dark as to who we were speaking of, but for the time being I let it be that way. The boy Sherlock had been questioning wordlessly gave us an answer as he turned, signaling us to follow. John, Sherlock and I did just so. Now was the time I asked my question. "Who are we talking about, John?" I turned to him, relying on him more so than Sherlock. The reasons were obvious; Sherlock tends to send mixed messages. "Soo Lin Yao. She works at the Museum, and she's our lead." "How so?" "Well, Sherlock just finished rooting around in her apartment. It would seem she's missing." "Why does that not surprise me?" My sentence was accompanied by a well-hearted chuckle, to which John joined in. We kept it quiet though, since we were dealing with a supposed 'missing' person. Finally our lead brought us down a flight of stairs and opened a door, which led to a storage room, or something close to it. At this point, he began speaking. "She does this demonstration for the tourists, a tea ceremony. So she would've packed up her things and put them in here…" He turned a corner, which led us face to face with a rather alarming sight. Before us was a statue of a nude woman, but the alarming part was what was on this statue. On her body, written in yellow spray paint, were the Chinese symbols. I swallowed a lump rising in my throat, growing anxious as Sherlock began inspecting it. Shit. "We have to get to Soo Lin Yao." "If she's still alive." "Oh, you are quite the optimist, John." We were leaving the museum, right around ten at night. Lamps on the sidewalks, as well as the beams of car headlights lit the streets. "Sherlock!" Came a voice to our left. Gee, the day was just filled with surprises wasn't it? From around the corner came a face I had seen before, the face of Sherlock's 'artist' friend. The graffiti guy that got John and I closed in by the coppers. A pleasant fellow, really. Doubt it. "Look who it is…" John said. Ah, finally someone catching onto the same amount of excitement as I had. That's why John was my favorite, and I doubt Sherlock would care if you told him that. Don't mind me, I'm just in a rather unpleasant mood. "I found something you'll like." He said, and then began walking off. Seriously, what is it with these people with punch lines, followed by a dramatic exit, which leads you to following them? Really, Sherlock does it day by day with no explanation. It's turning me into a nervous wreck, and I'm already on medication for that. Nonetheless, the only one who showed any sign of discomfort was John. He kept turning glares Graffiti Guy's way, probably quite unforgiving after the police fiasco. As for myself, I've grown attuned to hiding my discomfort. Eventually we were led to a skate park, ravished with graffiti of every sort. Cleverly, Sherlock said, "If you want to hide a tree, what better place than a forest." To which I responded with, "I don't see any trees." And he knew I was smarter than this, which is what frustrated him so. I loved his frustration. "There-" Graffiti Guy said, pointing toward one of the heavily decorated walls. From it I could see small lines of yellow paint, no doubt another message. "And exactly the same paint?" Graffiti Guy grunted in response to Sherlock's question. "John, if we're going to decipher this code, then we're going to need more evidence." Somehow, that brought us to a set of train tracks. Of course after we bid our little friend farewell we investigated other places (public transit sites, behind posters, bathroom stalls, etc.) but in the end we found ourselves investigating the train tracks. The three of us had banded off in different directions to cover more ground, but at the moment I was simply watching the two of them. I had no intention of helping with this case, not anymore. It was time to put my foot down and stop this once and for- "Sherlock, I found it!" Oh for fuck sakes. My attention turned to John, who stood with his phone in front of the wall. I had been mainly following him for the past while now. An array of yellow paint covered the wall, and by the smell it had just been sprayed. From my hiding spot in the dark I saw as John repeatedly tried to call Sherlock, only having to sigh and go seek him out himself. Once he'd run down the tracks and out of sight did I step out and examine the wall. The message formed in my head in a clear sentence. It caused my gut to squeeze, but not as tightly as it did when I heard the bushes move. Quickly I ducked under cover once again to secretly watch the area. Before my eyes a group in black gear had leapt out and had begun cleansing the wall of the graffiti. I knew who this group was, there was a chance I had even worked with some of them. And they weren't painting fast enough. From my hiding spot I emerged and advanced. It caused the group to turn their sights and me and prepare for an attack, but I raised my hands in surrender. "Hey, I'm on your side. Li Dun Nai, you've hear of me, yah?" They exchanged a look between each other. After a moment I found myself beside them and painting the brush in sleek black paint. The job was finished sooner than later, and I tossed them my paintbrush as they disappeared into the brush. I let out a breath of relief. From down the tracks I heard John and Sherlock approaching. Quickly, I made it look as if I was looking for clues. "Whitney!" John called, and I jerked my head up as if caught by surprise. "John! Find anything?" "Yeah I-" His gaze captured the wall, and for a moment he was baffled. If only he saw what I had just seen… "It was right here." He said in amazed disbelief. Sherlock reached a tentative hand out and touched the wall. "Someone doesn't want me to see it." He concluded, his flashlight snaking up the black wall. Sherlock turned suddenly, abandoning hiss flashlight in the soil as he placed his hands on the sides of John's face. For a moment I thought they were going to kiss, but alas, we never get that sort of action on these cases. "John, I need you to remember what it looked like. I need you to focus on everything you saw on that wall- remember everything!" "Will you get your hands off of me?" John, quite disturbed by Sherlock, tore himself from his grip. "I took a picture of it on my mobile phone!" "That makes sense," I snickered quietly, praying for a reaction from Sherlock. I was ever so pleased by the glare he sent my way. But with that glare he also caught sight of my hands. "You've paint on your hands." I glanced downward at my palms. He was right, I must've gotten it on me when I was covering up the other stuff. I quickly came up with an excuse. "I must've touched the wall right after they finished painting." His suspicious gaze narrowed, but whatever thoughts he had were dismissed, and we were soon on our way to leaving. We took ourselves back to 221B after that. Sherlock and John pinned up the pictures that had been taken of each and every symbol on their wall. Each was accompanied by a set of notes explaining what they were. Each note was closer and closer to the truth. Sherlock had already noted that they were numbers, but thankfully he didn't know quite what they were for. Speaking of Sherlock, he seemed to be the only one fully into this case at the moment. From the sidelines, John and I sat sharing a cup of tea and whatever edible produce we found in the kitchen. Whatever we found that wasn't a part of Sherlock's many experiments. "He's trying to communicate with his people. Whatever has been stolen… he wants it back. We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao." -And back to the museum we go. Really, this moving around business is quite tiring, especially when you haven't slept a wink in nearly twenty-four hours. Honestly, I'll have to file a complaint to Sherlock about this one. Anyhow, we did end up back at the museum and talking to what's-his-name again, even if it was the morning after. "So, who else could use a cup of coffee?" John raised his hand at my offer, both of our eyes drooping. "Two men who traveled back from China were murdered, and their killer left messages in Hangzhou symbols." Sherlock told What's-his-name. "Soo Lin is in danger," nicely summed up, from John. "And that cipher, it was just the same pattern as the others. He means kill her as well." "Look, I've tried everywhere. Friends, colleagues-" I noticed Sherlock's gaze wander to a glass casing. I followed his eyes, finding his attention turned to a case of teapots. "-I don't know where she's gone, I mean she could be a thousand miles away." It seemed I wasn't the only one that caught Sherlock's distraction. The next words came from John. "What are you looking at?" "Tell me more about the teapots." He ordered the boy. "W-well-" Aw, he stuttered. "-the pots were her obsession. They need urgent work, if they dry out the clay can start to crumble. Apparently you have to just keep making tea in them." Now Sherlock, as completely insane as he was, bent down so he was at eye level with the pots. "Yesterday only one of those pots was shining, now two of them are." "Wonderful, now what then? We wait until dark to see if she shows up and starts tinkering with her toys?" "Precisely." "I'll be truthful here, I wasn't expecting that answer." Then again, when did I ever get what was expected? We waited that day, we waited all the way until closing time, and What's-his-name waited with us, right until his shift was over. Trying to be nice, and make sure no one attacked the poor guy on the way out, I offered to come with him. "So," he began after we began our walk away from John and Sherlock. "How well do you know those two?" I shrugged, not minding having to answer. "John? Quite awhile, he's a friend of mine from a while back." I caught his eyes. "He's just a friend, and I haven't known Sherlock long enough to consider him as anything else as pleasantly frightening." "Pleasantly frightening?" He asked with a light laugh, which caused my lip to quirk in a light grin. "That's quite a description." "It's the only one that fits," I told him in all honesty. We shared quiet laughter at this, then a curious thought arose and I turned to him. "How would you describe them? Me included." He paused in thought at this, nervously scratching the back of his neck. "Uh… John is a bit jumpy, I suppose. Sherlock is… he's definitely curious. And you-" He cut off after this, and I found myself genuinely interested in his answer. "-You're someone I'd like to have a drink with, actually." Well then. "Wow." I uttered. "That… do you pick up all the ladies with that one?" "I uh… no." He was nervous, even more so. He didn't even look up at me anymore, and I found myself narrowing my eyes at the floor as well. I fiddled around in my pockets as if I'd find my answer in there. To be honest, I felt my stomach do a bit of somersault when I thought about going on a… date. A genuine date, not one where I was impersonating some businesswoman and going to some fancy five star restaurants with I man I was trying to solicit information from. "What's your name again?" I asked after quite a bit of hesitation. The question came just as we exited the museum doors. "A-Andy-" D'aw, there was that stutter again. "Andy Galbraith." "Well Andy." We walked down the museum stairs and I stopped at the car, which he had pointed out was his. "I might just take you up on that offer. Take care, alright?" I saw him grin goofily at my answer, and he managed a slightly bewildered 'Yeah, you too' before climbing into his car and pulling out. I watched him go, shoving my hands in my pockets once again as I made my way back into the museum. God, I hope I didn't regret this decision. When I entered the museum again (I had been given a key to the doors prior), I saw Sherlock and John were nowhere in sight. I looked around the dimly lit area, illuminated by the moon's light, and began moving my way through the halls. I briefly wondered if Soo Lin Yao had come back yet. If she had already then downstairs would be my best bet as to where she was located. My feet made their mind up for me and soon I found myself trekking down the stairs. Eventually I heard a pair of voices. Sherlock and John, I thought quickly. "You mean you were a smuggler?" I heard John's voice first. "I was fifteen," came the voice I assumed to be Soo Lin's. "My parents were dead, I had no livelihood, no way of surviving, day to day, except to work for the bosses." "Who are they?" Sherlock asked, and by now I could see each of their faces illuminated by the light. I took a step further down, though I had yet to attract the attention of either of them. "They are called The Black Lotus." Shit. I refrained from hitting my head against the wall in frustration, instead settling for digging my nails deep into my palms. "By the time I was sixteen I was taking thousands of pounds worth of drugs across the border, into Hong Kong. I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England, they gave me a job, here." From the candlelight I saw her face light up as she spoke about her work. Then, her expression dropped. "Everything was good. New life." "But he came looking for you." Sherlock figured. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had been thinking the same thing. "Yes. I hoped after five years that… maybe they would have forgotten, but they never really let you leave." Tear had sprung from her eyes and had begun to glisten; they reflected the tiny flames from the candles. "He came to my flat. He asked me to help him, to track down something that was stolen." "And you," John said. "Had no idea what it was." Soo Lin shook her head. "I refused to help." "So you knew him well when you were living back in China?" He asked her again. She nodded. "Oh yes, he's my brother." She met both of their eyes at this, and then continued. "He is there puppet, under the one called Shan." My chest tightened at the familiar name. "The Black Lotus General. I turned my brother away… he said I had betrayed him. The next day I came to work, and the cipher was waiting." Now Sherlock slid the pictures of the cipher he had gotten from the flat over to her. "Can you decipher these?" He asked. Soo Lin leaned further. Before my eyes, everything was crumbling. "These are numbers… here, across the man's eyes is a line. It is the Chinese number one." "And this one is fifteen-" Sherlock pointed out, losing patience. "-But what's the code?" "All the smugglers know it." She answered innocently. "It's based upon a book-" And bam. Lights out. Literally. In the room, and probably in the entire museum, all of the lights had been shut off. They couldn't have been shut off at a better time too, right when Soo Lin was about to give everything away. But the only question that remained in my mind was 'who turned off the lights?' "He's here." Soo Lin breathed anxiously. I could recognize how her heartbeat raised dramatically, and could imagine her knees becoming weak. "Ji Jui has found me." It was at that moment that I realized whom they had been speaking about, who her brother was. I was unnerved to say that I had met him, and that I had worked with him- That only meant I had to escape from this place all the faster. But I had nowhere to move. Immediately though, Sherlock had gotten up and began his sprint down the hallway, having John calling after him. "Wait! Sherlock!" He yelled to no avail. I took that moment to pop out from the stairs and run up to them. "Whitney!" John breathed in relief. "Watch Soo Lin, I have to help Sherlock!" No time was given to argue, for in the next moment John was racing up the stairs in pursuit of the detective. I looked to Soo Lin, who in turn looked to me. "Come on, behind the desk." I ordered, and the both of us crawled to the hidden position. In silence we stayed until gunshots could be heard above, and then cut off abruptly. Now I froze rigidly and kept my breathing to a minimum. I had done this many times before, you'd think I'd be used to it. Actually, I think the frightening part was that I sort of was… A dark shadow crossed before Soo Lin and I, and our breathing altogether stopped, and it seemed our hiding place was rubbish. A shape made itself apparent. A familiar face surfaced from the dark, and I saw Ji Jui once again. Carefully, we lifted ourselves to our feet. I didn't bother hiding my face, for I knew he had seen it. I was recognized, and I was a dead woman. Soo Lin brought a hand to her brother's face, speaking quietly to him. The softness of her voice, followed by the sound of a gun going off around her mid section caused me to jerk. No doubt John and Sherlock heard that. No doubt they would hear the bullet that ripped through my chest. "Li Dun Nai." He said in greeting. I noted that the gun that had once been directed toward his sister was now aimed at me. "Ji Jui." I offered to him. A hidden message, a hidden truce behind those two words. "You are a traitor to The Black Lotus, all this while you have been working under our noses. For that, you must pay." My eyes locked on his finger, firmly pressed against the trigger. I registered every single movement he made, each one hinting toward him pulling the trigger. His index finger jerked lightly, right before he pulled the actual trigger, but I had already dodged the fatal bullet. I ran backwards, ducking behind a shelf to the bullet didn't deliver the fatal wound, but instead would end up sailing through my arm. It caused a blinding sense of pain to leap through my chest and spring up on every single nerve. I clutched my wounded arm to me, but it didn't stop me from running. My first thoughts were the vents, I remembered seeing one in one of the hallways. My second thought went to the fire exit, which should be nearby. I went for the latter and continued sprinting toward my destination. I couldn't tell whether Ji Jui was following me or not, but at that time it didn't matter. I was still going to run for my life. And run I did, until I burst from the exit. But when I burst from the exit, I collided with someone I didn't expect to see. They were sent tumbling backward, while I only stumbled lightly. "Whitney! Damn it!" He cursed, regaining his footing quickly. I looked up to the face of Zhang, questions and pain buzzing through my head. "Zhang! What the hell are you doing here?" "I was watching you. This business is dangerous, I had to make sure you didn't get yourself killed- but it looked like I was almost too late." His eyes glimpsed my arm, to which I tried to chuckle at, but it wasn't working. "Go back to your flat." He told me. "I'll meet you there and I'll fix your arm. Until then, I'll lead them off your track. The Black Lotus is bound to be furious-" "They found me out. Ji Jui was there, he found me out. They know I'm not with them I-" "Sh!" He said suddenly. "Get to your flat, now!" I didn't have a choice as he roughly shoved me forward and began running again. He began doing the same in the opposite direction. The pain was racking, but I knew I'd had worst. That, and the running at full speed kept my thoughts off of it. I was only focused on the breathing, the fatigue of my eyes, and the weakness of my knees. I remembered when things like this used to be a daily occurrence. What was happening to me now that I was away from it? I wasn't getting soft, no, I hadn't been away long enough to get soft. Maybe- I was at my flat before I could finish my thought. It didn't surprise me much that Zhang had made it before me, since he was the one that opened the door to let me in. I breathed out relief as he shut the door behind him, and I collapsed on the couch. Nothing was said, though I'm sure there was plenty to be heard. He went about treating my arm, as painful as it was, and I managed to keep from calling out. Eventually, around three that night, he left, and I lapsed into sleep. I slept well into the next evening. The first thought that popped into my head was immediately relevant toward John and Sherlock. As in they must be worried sick. Maybe John more than Sherlock, but Sherlock would show at least a weensy bit of emotion. I hoped, at least. I had to prepare myself to face them, I realized, and jumped into the shower first thing. I changed my clothes, tossing on something presentable before stuffing my face with breakfast before heading out the door. Something was tacked on it though, which caused me to stop. When I took it from its spot I half expected it to be from the mysterious MH but when I ripped it open I was proved otherwise. Inside the message, accompanied by a red and orange ticket, read: If you're looking for your 'friends', they're at the circus in town. One night only, I've given you a ticket. Let's face it, I know you well enough to know you are going to look for them as soon as you wake up. Just don't have too much fun. ~Zhang. The message caused me to smile faintly, and wonder quietly as to how he would know what they're up to. Then again, he was probably watching them like he had watched me. The thought gave me confidence that John and Sherlock would be okay, but I still ran out of my door and hailed the first cab I saw. The pain in my arm had not yet subsided, but it had become a light and steady throb, much better than the stabbing pain from last night. As the drive continued, I ignored the pain. When the cab stopped before the extravaganza with blinking lights and streamers, I left the cab and paid the toll. Then, with a deep breath, I strode forward. It was busy inside, no doubt people wished to see the amazing tricks and stunts the acrobats would be preforming. As I made my way toward the Ticketmaster, my eyes locked on two familiar figures. John and Sherlock stood side by side. Beside John, I noted, was a girl. I observed the scenario. John was on a date. Sherlock was ruining his date. I was going to ruin Sherlock. So, confidently I strode forward. I went unnoticed by the lot until I was right beside Sherlock and had my arm hooked through his. The looks on their faces were simply priceless. "Sherlock!" I giggled lightly and clung onto his arm. "I'm glad I caught you lot on time! This is going to be a wonderful double date!" "Whitney! What are-" I gave John a look, and he shut up immediately. He knew I'd tell him later. "So you're Sherlock's girlfriend!" John's date exclaimed, and a wide smile spread across her lips. I returned the gesture just as any clingy girlfriend would. "No she's-" "Yup!" I cut Sherlock off, pleasantly frustrating him to the end of his wits. "And you're John's date? It's so nice to meet you, I'm Whitney!" I extended my arm, which caused me to spasm at the shock of pain. Sherlock gave me a look, having been the only one to notice this movement. I ignored his accusing stare and shook her hand. "Sarah." She said excitedly. "Wonderful! Let's get going then, hmm?" Before they had any other say in the matter, I passed my ticket to the woman at the front desk and began dragging Sherlock with me, leaving John and Sarah no choice but to follow. We walked into the main room, my arm still looped securely around Sherlock's. He no longer showed any restraint. At that, I was definitely surprised. Maybe Sherlock was softening up… Naw. Not possible. "Woah, what a place." I mused as we stopped and came face to face with the amazing light work, décor, and the lavish colors of the environment. Everything was Chinese, I realized. The décor was definitely what gave it away. I knew whom this place belonged to, and I made a silent bet with myself that by the end of the night, I would be getting into trouble. As the lights dimmed, exotic drums began to play, and a figure with pale white skin and vivid robes emerged from the darkness. A woman, obviously, made her way to an object hidden under a tarp. When she ripped the tarp off, she revealed a crossbow like structure, only stationary. Silently, Sherlock whispered in my ear. "You have a lot of explaining to do." I rolled my eyes at this. "Give me a break, I took a bullet for you guys. I'll explain when I damn well please." At this bold statement, I felt Sherlock tense. It was only the slightest movement, but it caused me to tear my gaze away from the performance and completely see his reaction. It would seem that I wasn't gifted with much though, as he still had his eyes, though glassy with some sort of hidden emotion, glued to the performance. Finally, he spoke. "You shouldn't have gotten in the way of the bullet." "Oh, piss off." We watched as the woman before us revealed a spear like weapon from the crossbow, and lifted it for the crowd to see. She then placed it in the machinery, took a single feather from her headdress, and dropped it in a bowl attached to the machine. As soon as the feather's light weight registered, the arrow shot like a bolt of lightning, and landed in a board set up across from her. As the arrow was leased, a gasp came over the crowd, soon followed by a relieved applause. Now a figure dressed in purple costume, strange yet exotic, stepped forward. Two of the crewmembers began wrapping him with chains, and then, they chained him to the board in which the arrow had previously been lodged in. "Classic Chinese Escapology act." Sherlock cared to share as we watched curiously. John and Sarah turned their heads to look at him. "I did something like this once. Different circumstances but…" Now the three of them looked to me with a bewildered look, it only took me a moment to get why they looked so flabbergasted. "I don't do bondage, if that's what you guys are thinking." I returned my eyes to the performance, ignoring their looks of humor and silent laughter, all at the expense of my dignity. Once our eyes were on the stage again though, it was hard to take them off. As the warrior was now strapped to the board, and the geisha looking woman was now reloading the bow machine. This time she took a knife from within her robes and buried it into a sack of sand above the weight bowl. Slowly the sand began to dribble out of the bowl and onto the ground, thus lowering the weight it was connected to closer and closer to the bowl, and the warrior began to rip and tug at his bonds. The act was staged; I knew that, so I didn't feel the apprehension that the rest of the crowd felt. Finally the warrior burst from his chains just as an arrow fired and was lodged into the board. The audience breathed a sigh of relief and resumed their hearty clap. At this point in time, Sherlock had removed himself from my side and had left my sight. No doubt he was rummaging around where he shouldn't be. "Ladies and gentlemen," the Chinese woman greeted. "From the distant moonlit shores of the Yaxti River, we present for your pleasure, the deadly Chinese Bird Spider!" The crowd applauded as, from the ceiling expanded a long red ribbon, and attached to that was a masked man. With the rope he had begun moving about the circle of candles, preforming acrobatic tricks in the air, as the audience grew high from the exciting sight. Beside me John and Sarah couldn't have looked more enthralled. It was from the curtains where I first saw the movement. The curtains behind the performance became ruffled and were rustled and the least expected happened (which should be expected by now) and Sherlock was shoved out. Following him was one of the armored warriors, looking as if he was ready to attack Sherlock. Without thinking I bolted forward, and lifted my leg to plant my foot firmly in his chest. The impact of my foot against him very well knocked the wind out of him, and knocked him a few feet back. He wasn't the only one in the action though, once the few of his accomplices saw the action, they joined in too. John and Sarah even leaped in. John tackled a guy, Sarah was beating someone with a stick, I roundhouse kicked a dude in the gut, and Sherlock was lying helplessly on the floor. One. Big. Happy. Family. We wasted no time getting the hell out of there. We burst out of the circus (if you can call it that anymore), and didn't even bother stopping for a breather. We just kept running. It felt like ages until we finally let ourselves slow to a stop, and even then we were casting cautious glances around the area. "Alright," I said. "That's it, I'm going home. You guys can get chased by the Chinese Mafia, I'm leaving." At this point I was questioning whether it was worth feigning ignorance. "You can't go!" Sherlock called out suddenly, causing each of us to turn his way in surprise. I sensed a little too much emotion behind his words, as did John. This was unusual for Sherlock. "You're involved. You can't leave, they saw you too." "I was shot! God damn it, Sherlock. Leave me be, I survived a bullet." I felt like crossing my arms, but the pain prevented me from doing so. "You what!?" John exclaimed, and trust me, at any other time I would have laughed merrily at his astonishment, but right now I was spent. "I'll explain later! But right now I'm tired, and I'm going home. Good night." They couldn't stop me from leaving then, I was completely serious when I told him I was done. It's not like they would be able to catch me even if they did try to stop me, I was already down the road and out of their sight. I caught the first cab I saw back to my flat. Only when I stepped over the threshold did I breathe a sigh of relief, but only when I stepped over the threshold did I realize I was not alone. I was about to turn too, to look and see who was there, but something collided with my head and knocked me unconscious before I could make a move. My entire body was sore, and I was as frozen as could be. Before I was even fully awake I felt my teeth chattering and my arms trembling. I could hear voices discussing. "Forgive me if I do not take your word for it…" A familiar voice, one quite known to me, said. I could hear the grunting of someone struggling with something, but I didn't dare risk looking. "Debit card, name of S. Holmes." "Yes-" John! "That's not actually mine. My friend stole it and gave it to me-" "A check made out for five thousand pounds, made out for a Mr. Sherlock Holmes." "H-he gave it to me to look after." "Tickets at the theater, collected by the name of 'Holmes'." "Yes, okay. I realize what this looks like, but I'm not him." "We heard it from your own mouth." I grimaced as a pain settled in my shoulder blades. I quickly realized my hands were tied behind my back. Had John noticed me yet? Had they noticed I was awake? I made the daring decision to roll over quietly and get a view of the scene. My movement, thanks to the darkness that shrouded me, went unnoticed. "'I am Sherlock Holmes, and I always work alone'." "… Did I really say that?" He spoke to himself, shaking his head as if ashamed. He must be, it was in his eyes. "I suppose there's no use trying to persuade you I was doing an impression-" The barrel of a gun was suddenly held up to his head, and he went dead silent almost instantly. "I am Shan-" "You're also a real bitch!" I called out at that time, hoping it would cause her to lower the gun from his head. She did just so and whipped around to look at me. By now I had propped myself into a sitting position. "Come on, you want to shoot me more than him, don't you? After what I did? Plotting and scheming against your people. You did deserve it though…" "You…" She hissed through clenched teeth. I knew Shan well enough, hell; I'd worked under her wing for a time. I had seen her weak spots through her calm façade. Her biggest flaw? Her temper. "Me." I beamed up at her. I felt a light pain on my cheek; no doubt I had a gash intersecting my cheekbone, probably from getting smacked in the head earlier. "Boys, take care of her." Her henchman, a group of unfamiliar faces, began making their way toward me. I spared a glance at John and looked in the eyes of my pursuers. I pushed myself to my knees, then my feet. I would put up a fight. As the three of them rushed forward, I somersaulted backwards; holding back a call of pain it caused me. The three of them ended up bashing together though, and knocking each other off balance. This allowed me time to rush forward and drive my knee up one of their guts, then plant a kick to another's stomach. I faced the third. I didn't even hold back as I kicked him right between the legs. Now, each of them, in hardly ten seconds, were on the floor beneath me. I hadn't even used my hands. "You really need to get your shit together Shan. You're losing your game." I grinned wickedly, much to her severe displeasure. Shan was angrier than ever, but now she was moving toward a covered object. My gut clenched when she pulled back to cover to reveal the same machine as earlier. It was the crossbow again, and it was aimed directly at the chair beside John. A chair I hadn't realized until now, held Sarah. "Shit…" "Sit back down, Li Dun Nai. Sit down and watch, or else I kill her now." She aimed the gun at Sarah's head. Obediently I lowered myself to the ground. What was I to do in this situation? I was trying to plot various different escape routes in my head, but it was so hard to figure out a way to keep us all alive. Once Shan figured I was no longer a problem, she turned to John. "Where is the pin?" She asked. "What?" "The empress pin in which we've already paid nine million sterling for. One of our people, greedy, he took it, brought it back to London, and you, Mr. Holmes, have been searching." "Please- I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" He pressed, but Shan wasn't having it. Playfully she swept her hand across the area. "I need a volunteer from the audience!" She turned to Sarah. "Ah! Thank you, lady. Yes… you'll do very nicely." Now, with a knife in hand, Shan plunged it into the sand bag over hanging the machine and waited as the sand emptied, and the weight it was connect to was slowly lowered closer to the bowl. My eyes had glued themselves to the knife in her hand. If I could just get that then… One of the thugs around me had begun to push themselves back up. Maybe they had a knife, maybe they- "Boys," Shan said once again. "Get on your feet, show Li Dun the error of her ways." As they recovered, they men rose to their full height, suddenly seeming like mountains from where I sat. Their eyes were alight with anger and hatred, and the first one planted their cruelty right in my ribs. The kick was like fire that ripped through me like a bullet. The next kick, even worse, and soon they become continuous. Never ceasing for a gasp of breath. It was complete agony, and soon enough I was curled as far as I could go, after having dozens of blows to the stomach, back and ribs. For a good few minutes one of them had lowered themselves on top of me and I felt their fists pummeling my jaw, nose and cheeks. I was crumbling in on myself. But this wasn't the first time. In fact, I could remember so many more beatings ten times worse than this. What made this one so damn awful? Maybe it was the fact that I didn't just have to worry about my own neck. I had Sarah and John to worry about, and before it was only I witnessing my pain. Now my closest friend had to bear it… "Please stop!" John hollered to her in sheer desperation. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" "I don't believe you." She said cruelly. "You should, you know." It was a voice from the heavens, I swear it. The familiar voice of the actual Sherlock Holmes rung through the sewer smelling place we were in. The thugs stopped their cruel game of 'No Mercy' and turned their heads toward the new noise. "Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him. How would you describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?" "Late?" John quietly offered. I wanted to laugh, but there was no hope in hell I could move, let alone speak. Shan had aimed her gun at the area she heard Sherlock speaking from. It made me want to laugh for a reason Sherlock quickly explained. "That's a semi-automatic." He explained. "The bullet will travel a little over a thousand meters per second." "Well?" "Well," one of the thugs had wandered forward to scout Sherlock's hiding spot. As he rounded the corner, he was nailed full on with a bat and rendered either dead or unconscious. That's my Sherlock. "The radius curvature of these walls is nearly four meters, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you." Suddenly he burst from the darkness, slamming something to the ground, which clanged with quite a racket. It was a distraction, I realized once I saw him bolting over to try to untie Sarah. She was in immediate danger. Sherlock's efforts proved to be in vain. As soon as he had begun untying Sarah, one of the other thugs had caught him. They wrapped a thick red ribbon around his throat and tugged angrily at it, trying to choke him to death. My heart beat rapidly against my rib cage, and even that proved painful. The most painful of all though was having to watch helplessly. Even as John inched his chair forward toward the contraption, kicking it so it was set off course and the bolt instead flew into the chest of Sherlock's attacker, I couldn't get the sick feeling of helplessness out of the pit of my stomach. Sherlock, now free of his attacker, began untying Sarah once again. "Don't worry," he said as sobs wracked her. "Everything is going to be okay." From my spot, I watched him closely. Shan had long since abandoned the scene. "Sherlock." John said, calling the detective's attention. "Whitney is here. She's over there." He jerked his head in my direction as he wrestled his way out of his own binds. I saw Sherlock's head lift at once and look toward where I was, but the darkness was too great, so I watched as he took out his phone and, with the flashlight, illuminated the area. "Oh my God." Were the first words that came from his mouth. For a moment I wondered what was so horrendous, then I realized I must seriously look like a piece of work right about now. It was even painful when he undid my binds. I couldn't speak, I couldn't move. Useless. Even as I drifted off to sleep that same word repetitively appeared in my head. ~ ~ ~ It took less time than I expected for me to get up and moving again. After a short trip in an ambulance to the nearest hospital, I was fine and looked after. Of course I knew John and Sherlock would be worrying (again, more so John than Sherlock) but I didn't let that bother me at the time. I was too happy having been drugged up on every kind of painkiller in the book. Everything took its time to heal, but I was tough enough, and the only thing I had were majorly bruised ribs. Turns out those thugs didn't even have it in them to break a rib. Honestly, they couldn't even give me a little kidney failure. Sheesh. Sissies. Of course John hates my view on the matter very much, but I'm just trying to lighten things up in the sickest way possible. It's what I do, if you haven't noticed yet. So, while John and Sherlock visited the secretary of Vancoon to tell her she had a hairpin worth a lot of paychecks, I was healing ever so slowly. My bruises were sore as hell, and they were freaking everywhere, but soon enough I was in my own flat- Actually, I was in Sherlock's and John's flat. It was about time I told them the truth, no matter what expense. "You both have questions, I understand-" "You nearly got yourself killed. What were you thinking?" John was the first to revolt. Well, this was starting nicely. "It was my job, John! For years now I've had to work under the wing of the Black Lotus. I had to undermine their secrets, theirs ways and tell my boss. It was the only way to figure them out, to get rid of them." He didn't like this, I was sure from the expression on his face. He was even less approving of my bullet wound story. I told him Ji Jui shot me, my 'accomplice' in the Black Lotus operation helped me out, and now I was fine. "What about the name then?" John asked. "The- the Li Dun whatever thing. What's that about?" Sherlock gave an audible sigh. "It was her undercover name, obviously." I could feel a light laughter begin to rise from my chest. "Yeah, that's the jist of it." Sherlock nodded, pursing his lips then, most likely completely unnoticeable to any other, his eyes became glassy in thought. "But you knew that." His eyes rose, surprised at this, but he didn't go about denying it. "Yes. It took time, I only just figured out after you left the hospital. The pieces fit together, I just hadn't taken the time to pay them any mind." "Wait-" John glanced between the two of us, then settled his look on me. "How did you know he knew?" In my chair, I leaned back with a smug grin. "Whenever Sherlock is hiding something, he thinks about it. You can't notice this because he always looks a bit distant, but there's a difference between a thinking Sherlock and a hiding Sherlock. It's easy to mix the two up, but when ever Sherlock is hiding something his eyes become misty, but he also tries to hide that he's thinking. That makes him in hiding." Somewhat of a light smile quirked at the corner of Sherlock's lip, and he let it settle into a lopsided smile. So, they listened; I'll give them that. They didn't say a word as I told them the more complicated bits and pieces. I told them about how I worked directly for Shan, I had sparred with Ji Jui once, I had been in the same room as the both of them before and we had talked amongst ourselves civilly. I had smuggled goods to nearly every place imaginable. John and Sherlock accepted it too, much to my disbelief. By accept I mean that the both of them completely disagreed with everything I told them and told me to get a safer job. I couldn't help it, the military was my thing. I was dedicated; I even had a Black Lotus tattoo to prove it. Now if that isn't dedication then I don't know what is. "But what about the Black Lotus?" John asked both Sherlock and me. "They're still out there-" "Not for long." I interrupted. They both gave me curious looks. "A while ago when I met up with one of my men, Zhang, he gave me some information. He was also undercover like I was, and he had all the information needed to exterminate the Black Lotus. This information was given to me, and soon I will give it to my superiors." I referred to the letter that was currently resting in my breast pocket. At some point after the case was closed, and I was in healing, I had unsealed it and read the contents. It exploiting everything the military needed in order to uproot the Black Lotus. I would enjoy handing this tid bit of info over to the boss man. After that we lapsed into silence. It had begun to suffocate me, so I quickly bid them farewell and left through the door. On this day it was bright and the sun was shining through a thin layer of puffy white clouds. It was a lovely day, and the cool breeze welcomed me. But my attention from the weather was quickly averted, as the rumble of a car grew closer. A black car with silver trim around the windows and doors rolled up, and the tinted window nearest to me began to lower. I already knew who was inside before I saw their face. The first thing they did was holding out their hand with, of all things in the world, a mobile phone in their palm. "I believe I owe you this after your last one was disposed of. My apologies, angering you was not my intention." I arched a brow and grabbed the phone, scrolling through its contents before grinning. "It took you long enough, Mycroft. The love letters were a little Romeo and Juliet, you best stick with the texting." "Yes, it would seem." "… You want me to get into your mysterious black car, don't you?" "Yes, we have much to discuss." I scrunched up my face in displeasure, finally sighing and opening the side door. I was in for a lecture. A lecture from the mysterious MH. God, this was going to fucking suck. 


End file.
